


From A Child's Plate

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Note: Just a little one shot, a couple of chapters about Samantha and Nala and Salem. Rios has his hands full juggling the trio and keeping the peace. I’m guessing that Nala is around six or so in 2005 so I’ll put this in ’07. Let’s just say she’s eight and he father’s daughter. I’ll stick to the events in my Breath of Evil story arc as far as Samantha’s demeanor and Salem’s past which is still unknown to Tyson at this time. So in short Elliot learns a lesson from Tyson's little daughter and the guys learn a little more about Salem's mysterious past also some back story for the group.</p><p>Warnings: None really, a little language.</p><p> </p><p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Appitizer

**_ From A Childs Plate _ **

**__ **

**_ Part One _ **

**_ An Appitizer _ **

**__ **

Note: Just a little one shot, a couple of chapters about Samantha and Nala and Salem. Rios has his hands full juggling the trio and keeping the peace. I’m guessing that Nala is around six or so in 2005 so I’ll put this in ’07. Let’s just say she’s eight and he father’s daughter. I’ll stick to the events in my Breath of Evil story arc as far as Samantha’s demeanor and Salem’s past which is still unknown to Tyson at this time.

Warnings: None really, a little language.

           

 

Tyson Rios plopped down into his lawn chair and pulled out his phone while he watched Nala jog across the soccer field kicking her ball out ahead of herself. He jabbed a thick index finger on number two, tuned out his grumbling wife and listened to it ring.

            “Salem?”

            “Yo, Salem where you at, remember you have snack duty, you up? You sounded rough last night.”

            “What, yea ‘course I’m up. It’s soccer day, championship day, sure I’m up Tyse, driving, I’m driving only about a half mile away; snacks have been obtained.”

            “You’re late. Are you drunk still? Because if you’re drunk still from last night, Salem it’ll be a pain in my ass. Put your seat belt on Elliot.”  

“No, Tyse, no, just a little slow getting up was a shitty night. Be there in ten minutes. Salem out.”

            “So he’s still drunk? If he is I don’t want him here Ty. Forgot the snacks too, I’ll bet.”

            “I don’t know Samantha and so what if he is; it’s not like you’ve never shown up here for one of Nala’s games still drunk and unlike you, Salem’s damn sure never walked across the street to a bar during an away game and gotten shit faced while the girls played. Remember that fiasco, Samantha, the DUI the…should I go on? That was great phone call to get in a hotel 3500 miles from home. And yea, he has the snacks that’s probably why he’s running late. He can never decide what to get then gets way too much. Just chill out and ignore him. He loves coming to see her play; it’s not like he has anybody else to hang with.”

            “Yes Ty, and there’s a good reason for that. The man is a menace nobody else wants him. Why you can’t see that, won’t admit it defies reason. Can’t Giddy or Heckler take him every now and then?”

            “Take him, take him? We aren’t his baby sitters. For Christ’s sake Sam, he’s grown and no they can’t take him they have families.”

            “Families!” Samantha screeched launching out of her lawn chair, straightening to her full height of six feet tall and glaring down at Rios. “Families and just what the hell is this, me, you, Nala the three of us, is that not a family, Tyson!”

            “Sam sit down you’re making a scene. I just meant…”

            “I know what you meant. Maybe if you’d finally stand before God and marry me you’d take us being family a bit more seriously. Answer me Tyson are we a family or are we not?”

            Rios stood, grasped her by the left elbow and forced her gently away from the sideline of the small soccer field a few paces. Stand before God, was she serious; the church would implode. He might marry her one day but not in a church. He might not be the most devout man in the world but he was not going to risk eternal damnation by taking soiled vows in a church.

            “Quiet you’ll embarrass Nala. Yes we are a family, and yes he’s part of it, ours, mine not theirs so get over it.”

            “I remind you Tyson that you had me long before him. Don’t forget it.”

            “And I’ll remind you, he’s Nala’s godfather, he’s been to every single game this season that we were home for, and that you, you have only made it to three aside from having to bring her when we were out of country last month. Four counting today and just because you decided to choose today, the championship day, to drag your ass out of bed for it and skip your spa appointment doesn’t mean I’m not going to let him come.”

            “He can sit alone.”

            “He sit’s where he sits every Saturday, right next to me. This conversation is over, Samantha.”

            “Ty, Tyson, Tyson Rios!”

            Rios ignored her squalling and returned to his chair.

            “Everything ok, Tyson?”

            The fellow sitting beside him asked. His child, Bree, played on Nala’s team and the pair had become friendly over several seasons.

            “Yea, Frank, just another day in paradise.” Tyson mumbled taking a sip of his soda.

            “Not my business man, but you can do better, deserve better, hell maybe she’ll just haul ass, and not stay.”

            “Nah, she’s probably just getting something to drink, won’t let me off that easily.”

            “Too bad, Salem’s a good guy and Nala loves him. All the girls love him. It’s sad that she has to see the tension between the three of you.”

            “We don’t fight in front of her about him.”

            “You don’t have to man; you can’t hide that stuff from kids. She knows and I’d bet Sam gives her an earful whenever possible. You know she asked her grandma for money for lighting a candle for a special prayer after mass last Sunday; then asked that God make Samantha love Salem too. My wife and I overheard her. It was sweet. You should come to mass with them Tyson, hell might bring the three of you closer as a family.”

            “No thanks Frank but thanks for offering again. I don’t need mass, I need a muzzle.”

*********************************

       Out in the parking lot Salem dropped the tailgate of his red four wheel drive F-250 and pulled the heavy cooler toward it. Despite Rios’ scolding he wasn’t really late. Nala needed to be at the field thirty minutes early and when him and Rios took her together the trio typically arrived there a bit ahead of that.

       The drunk part though, he might fail on that account; despite chugging a huge mug of coffee, and a quart of Gatorade Salem was still paying for his over indulgence the night before. Saturdays were for Nala and Salem made extra effort to keep it that way. He turned down offers to party, turned down dates and typically on Fridays he locked himself down at home or hung out with Rios if Samantha was out with her girlfriends. At home was exactly where he was the night before. He was just sitting home alone, watching television and dutifully cutting up orange and apple slices for game snacks when Rios called to let him know Samantha was going to the game after all and that he’d need to drive himself. The news irked him. It was the end of season championship game and now Samantha would expect him to sit alone and not share the day with Rios and Nala. He’d finished the snacks, paced around his apartment for a while then slammed out of the door and made straight for the bar; stumbling home around closing time. The night would have been peaceful except his temper got the better of him and he’d called Rios. As he lugged the cooler toward field number eight he recalled their brief conversation and prepared himself for the big man’s reprimand.

_“What? Whatever it is I’m on my way. Where are you Elliot?”_

_“Salem?”_

_“I know it’s you Salem. It’s also three a.m. What?”_

_“Just wanted to say fuck you and fuck Samantha too and if you want I’ll just drop the snacks, the fruit part too, off in the clubhouse early with Raul, I won’t ruin the day for you’ll.”_

_"You’ll? You’re drunk, Salem. You only you’ll when your drunk.”_

_“So. Maybe I am but I’m damn sure not as fucking depressed now.”_

_“Elliot,” Tyson squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Try and get some sleep, Ellie; I’ll see you in the morning. Game’s at eleven, Nala…”_

_“I know, I know, half an hour early. You sure, Tyse?”_

_“Wouldn’t have it any other way buddy, love you man; now get some rest and try to sober up.”_

_“Ok but like I said fuck the both of you.”_

       “Damn you Salem why do you always have to have the last word?” he muttered to himself.

       As he neared the field he noticed Rios and Samantha arguing. Rios had her by the elbow and was leading her away from the other parents. She was livid as usual and Salem knew all too well why. For a moment he paused and again considered dropping the cooler with Raul in the concession stand and having the man deliver it; but then he saw Nala look up from her stretching and seeing him, she waved. So committed he trudged forward passing a glowering Samantha along his way hating that she was taller than he was.

       “Here’s the snacks, Boss.” He said softly as he came up behind Tyson.

       He called the big man Boss sometimes out of deference to his authority. They were for the most part equals but Elliot understood that Tyson would always be the leader and _Boss_ was his way of showing that he respected that.

       “Boss today, Ellie? Kissing up?”

      “Yea, s’pose so. You want to carry them over or should I?”

       “Stop sounding so contrite, Elliot it doesn’t become you. Let’s both take it. The cooler has two handles. Put your chair here first.”

       He slid Samantha’s over then pointed to the spot.

      “Samantha’s spot?”

       “Your spot.”

       Salem shrugged and opened his bright pink folding chair up. Nala’s team colors were pink and silver gray, with purple pinstripes and Salem had purchased the brightly colored chair with its matching equally vivid umbrella to show his support. The girls loved it and Salem both. Between his pink chair, pink team jersey with Nala’s number on it, pink hat that the girls recorded their goals on with a permanent marker after each game and matching high top Converse All-stars the man was hard to miss sitting on the sideline.

      The chair in place the two friends headed across the field with the cooler.

        “Damn Salem how much did you buy? The cooler weighs fifty pounds or more.”

        “The usual; drinks and water for now, the orange and apple slices, four flavors of Fruit Roll Ups and sugar free ones for Bree, plus treat drinks for after. Let’s see, oh they had some cool looking, slushy, fruity tubey things, Boss; I ate one while I was browsing, berry-berry lime flavor and it tasted great so I got three flavors of those. Oh and two kinds of the little kid sized Gatorades, and Capri Suns they taste good too. Should be plenty.”

        “Yea, Salem for a small incursion into the Congo. Good thing you don’t do our supplies. We’d need porters. Uh oh they’ve seen you, look out.”

      The men sat the cooler on the end of the bench and greeted the swarm of squealing pink clad, seven and eight year old girls.

      “Uncle Elliot, Uncle Elliot you came!” Nala shouted, launching into his outstretched arms.

       “Of course I’m here. I wouldn’t miss the championship game for anything in the world, Nala. So are you stretched, loose as a goose and ready to trounce those measly pea green Giants?” He asked setting her down and tightening her dark brown pony tail with a deft tug just above the hair band.

      “Yup, it’s gonna be Elliot’s Pink Elephants all the way!”

      “Good, that’s what I want to hear, And a Half; now go out there and get ‘em.”

      Nala pulled him down stood on her toes and whispered in his ear.

      “Please don’t let mommy ruin your day. I’m happy you came and I love you.”

       “No worries, sweetie you just keep those girls in line and play a good game. See ya at half time.”

      “Will you start our cheer now?”

      Salem started the cheer, led the girls through it twice and once it was over completed their pre-game ritual.

       “Ok, my little Pink Elephants who’s gonna get to write goals on my good luck hat today?”

      He took the cap off and swirled it around above his head while the kids leapt for it squealing and shouting out a chorus of _me’s and I am’s._

       “I hope so! Now get ‘em out there and make ‘em play a great game, And a Half.”

       “Roger that, Corporal Salem, And a Half out. Bye dad wish me luck.”

       “Bye, baby good luck and be careful.”

      Back across the field Samantha sat stone faced in her relocated chair. Salem greeted her politely, as he always did and plopped down into his pink one. The girls came onto the field and gathered in a group. Then on cue they started into their team cheer, once again ending in a shrill go Pink Elephants! Samantha hated the name.

       “I still do not understand the name. Pink Elephants? Elliot’s Pink Elephants. Why did she put that up for the vote, Ty? Why not Tyson’s Tigers or Samantha’s Scorpions, Elliot’s Elephants. She’s not even his kid.”

       Rios groaned, it always began like this and it never ended well. Samantha starts picking, then Elliot gets the jitters and the Rios steps in and the ensuing meltdown is nothing short of catastrophic.

       “I do have to say though it is fitting. If you stopped drinking for more than five minutes Elliot you’d probably see pink elephants.”

       “No Samantha, I only see them when I drop acid. I figure Nala will be old enough to trip…what say next year. That’s about the age you started right.”

       “Fuck off, Salem.”

“Be my pleasure, when are you available, I hear there can be quite a wait.”

       “Ty are you going to let him get away with that?”

       “They’re kicking off be quiet.” Rios snapped but Samantha pulled about her phone, dialed her girlfriend and continued to rail on about Salem.

      Rios tuned her out again and looked over at Elliot. Despite looking haggard he was pleased to note that Salem seemed happy enough. But more importantly instead of listening to Sam gripe he’d jammed a straw into one of the Capri Suns, sipped at it and focused on the game, shouting instructions to whichever Pink Elephant was nearest. Rios laughed to himself. When Nala had begun soccer four years ago Elliot didn’t know which end of a soccer ball to kick. The young man was completely clueless, yet now he could cite chapter and verse of the rule book according to age group. When the Elephants trundled down toward the goal for the first time, in clear possession of the ball, Salem jumped to his feet and started shouting support. Nala dribbled the ball in and passed it to Bree who shot it into the net. Salem leapt for joy and as she ran back to center Nala stuck out her hand and high fived him along the sideline. The teenaged volunteer referee, familiar with Salem’s often unbounded enthusiasm, called him out.

        “Hey you, pink dude, I’ve got your number and I’m watching you, sit down.”

      “Yea, yea sure you are; just keep your eyes on the game you over ripe banana. See that, Tyse, did you see And a Half she’s the best! Did you see her center the ball and Bree was right there, I bet she set that up. The kid takes after you, Boss a real tactical genius. Damn they’re good and mean too I love that. I’m guessing four to one, Pink Elephants. I put a hundred bucks on them, at that spread with the guys in Hannigans last night.”

       “At least Elliot, now listen to the man and sit down. A hundred bucks are you crazy?”

       “I can’t sit, how can you sit? How can he make me sit? This is exciting; it’s everything. Just sitting sucks. Hear that yellow dude, sitting sucks!”

       “Don’t say sucks in front of the kids, Ellie.”

       “Oh geeze Tyse, they’re eight; they probably curse better than you do, bro. Kids these days are not all polite like what you were, way back when you were a kid; lighten up.”

       The game continued and then just before the half ended Rihanna, a big girl for her age, and fast, stole the ball and drove toward the goal. One of the Green Giants tripped her just outside of the net to break up the play. She flew up, came down hard on her left shoulder and stayed down. Salem was up and screaming at the referee and Tyson jumped up to stop him. But before he could, he heard Samantha scream Nala's name and turning back to the field watched his daughter, also a big girl for her age, charge and tackle the offending Green Giant then start pummeling her. Both men ran onto the field, dragged the furious girl away from the downed Green Giant and carried her thrashing and screaming, much to Rios’ dismay very adult like expletives, to the bench.

       Once the referee achieved order, and Rihanna was cared for the referee reprimanded the girls for their behavior. The Green Giant received a red card, and Nala a verbal warning. Salem and the Green Giant’s father nearly came to blows after the man argued the punishment but Rios calmed Salem down and the game continued without incident after Bree successfully took the penalty kick. The Pink Elephants won five to four.

       The team and parents celebrated at the bench digging into Salem’s snacks and singing the team song. Rios watched Salem with the kids and as he always did, marveled at the man’s ability to hold their attention considering he’d never been around kids and his own childhood had been less than nurturing. The girls pushed and shoved to be near him and jumped at the chance to write their names on his pink hat and chalk up their goals. The other parents, used to Elliot’s  odd hold on the team, stood aside and let the girls maul him, using the time to make plans for a celebratory pizza party on the following Saturday. The group finally had to clear the way for the next team and the party broke up.

      At the parking lot Salem headed straight for his truck with his chair and the empty cooler, stowed them and slid behind the wheel. He was tired. He always shouted and applauded the girls’ play and on several occasions over the years the referees had scolded him for being overzealous. The games wore him out although he truly didn’t understand why. He sighed pulled out of the parking lot; five miles later he took out his phone.

       “Call Tubby.”

       While he waited for Rios to answer he prepared himself to hear the words he was dreading. ‘No, the cook out’s off Elliot. Sam’s pitching a fit; see you Monday at work.’

        “You took off in a hurry, Ellie, what’s up?”

      “Nothing, look am I still on for today and tonight, still coming over to cook out? I’ll under- stand if it’s a no go Tyse, Samantha’s over me for today and And a Half’s all stoked about winning I don’t wanna start anything and ruin it.”

       Tyse could hear the hurt in Salem’s voice and it broke his heart; the whole situation was a mess and he didn’t know how to fix it. Rios looked across his truck at Samantha who was on her phone with her mother retelling the fight story and blaming Nala’s aggression on Salem. The woman would be shocked to discover that while Salem might have a shorter fuse temper wise, Rios had by far the greater mean streak. In  the mirror he saw Nala scowling. She could hear her mother’s disparaging words and hated her for them. Nala started yelling and he snapped back to reality.

       “Stop it mom! It’s not Uncle Elliot’s fault. It’s my fault and I’d get her again for hurting one of my team mates; that’s what team mates do! So stop saying mean stuff! I hate you. I hate that you hate him, I…”

      “Nala, enough now, hush, Uncle Elliot’s on the phone, just relax baby, just relax.”

      “But daddy…”

       “Shhh, no Salem everything’s ok and yea man you’re grilling the ribs remember. You started them soaking day before yesterday. It’s the same plan as we talked about; grill, you stay over then the beach tomorrow. Just come on out. I’m on my way now. Salem come on, you sound like hell and you don’t need to sit around moping all alone. Just get your ass to the meat store, pick up the steaks and stuff and then come over, Nala expects you there.”

      “Tell him I have a surprise for him at dinner, daddy.”

       “She says she has a dinner surprise for you.”

       Salem put on his blinker, slipped the big truck into the left lane and passed a slower moving vehicle.

       “Ok, ok roger that, Boss, I’ll be there in about an hour. Just start the fire though, ok Tyse; that would be a big help.”

       “Consider it done, Kermit. Put your seat belt on and drive safe.”

 

 

           

  

 

           

 


	2. The Deeper End of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliot picks up supplies and visits with some friend outside of the SSC group.

**_ The Deeper End of Friendship _ **

 

            Elliot pulled his truck into the small parking lot of the Cuban owned meat store in a faltering part of down town Miami and took a deep breath. Unfortunately, lately, no matter how often he went in the greeting he received made him cringe. He’d been shopping in the little place for several years; initially going in after hearing that they sold custom, handmade Cajun Boudin Noir, a sausage staple he’d grown up eating in Louisiana and still loved dearly despite his tepid appetite. Boudin one of very few good memories he had of his childhood. Committed he pushed through the door and before the joyful bells could stopped clanging he was greeted boisterously by the owner’s twenty two year old son as the man forced his way through waiting patrons.

            “Hola, Papi! Que pasa? What’s up? Pop it’s Elliot; make Espresso! Papi been a while again, too long, come in, come in, Papi! Don’t mind these people, come here, step on up.”

            “Hey, Calixto; nothing much. Need some steaks, my Boudin; you know the normal, shit. Grilling out at Rios’.” He answered shyly after pulling free from Calixto’s crushing embrace. “Everything cool here? No problems?”

            “Nada, no.” Then in a whisper. “Not since you, Papi. Look they line up round the aisle. We owe you, Papi. You just name it. And you? You’re a bad liar. Nothing’s up? You look like you lost your best friend again. The fat one’s bitch chewing at your skinny ass again. Look at this.” He tugged at the waist of Salem’s Levis. “Pop’s gonna have your head, Papi. You lost weight again. What ten pounds easy! He’s gonna want to feed you my friend.”

            “Nah, I’ll eat out at Rios’ promise. And Calixto, Tyse he’s not fat. Not an ounce a fat on him man, trust me. I train with him, no fat.”

            “My Cuban ass! He’s fat, she’s a bitch and you’re too thin again. Missed you at the gym, been what, a month? Where do you hide, Papi? “

            “Around.”

“Right Papi, around, good answer and always the same you wily bastard. Diaz that slouch outta Philly; man Fortner bashed his face in good. Little Mexican fuck won’t be bragging for a while. Broke the fool’s jaw in three places.”

            Salem took in the news and followed Calixto to the meat counter cutting ahead of the twenty people waiting in line. It might not be much but V.I.P. status in his butcher shop of choice always filled Salem with a jolt of pride. Conversely it irked him that Calixto knew about Samantha’s hate for him and that folks tended to think Rios was fat.

       One of the only activities Salem did without Rios was to train Combat Sambo, which is where he first met Calixto. His Sambo Dojo was located in the same dank down town warehouse turned gym that the younger man boxed and trained mixed martial arts in. Salem’s Sensei often paired him with Calixto for sparing and extra tutoring. They got along well but because Salem held people at arm’s length the classes framed the extent of their friendship and Elliot had no idea that the he was the son of his favorite butcher. As he studied the fresh meats in the case he recalled how he’d become so entwined in the world of Gimo’s.

       For two decades the little Bodega and café, affectionately called Gimo’s, was a popular gathering place for the citizens of that block. The shop also drew out of area customers who made the trip into the neighborhood to take advantage of the shop’s high quality cuts of meats, produce, excellent Espresso and authentic Cuban deli dishes. Then a local gang strong armed, Calixto’s father, Gimoaldo, asking for protection money and selling drugs on his stoop. The gang’s presence was scaring the once loyal customers away. Business was dying off and feeling he had no recourse, after the local authorities failed to interceded, Calixto’s father, not wanting to involve his son, who’d opted to leave the turbulent neighborhood to work to live downtown, confronted the gang alone and lost. The brutal assault landed the critically wounded man in the hospital for months.

            Then three months ago after returning from a long and protracted mission and weeks after the incident, Salem with Rios in tow ventured in to pick up some steaks and were astounded to find Calixto working the counter. A sign for a vigil for his father hung limply on the window behind the register. Calixto explained the situation to a stunned and furious Elliot. Over the years Gimoaldo had been uncommonly kind to Elliot, always seeming to see through his façade, something that had endeared the elder Cuban to him. He worried and fussed over Elliot’s weight and health. If Salem ordered a pound of Boudin he’d find two in his package, along with a new blend to taste test, bags of fancy coffee and extra steaks. The old man would stick delicately cooked vegetables in too; tucked and hidden in the sack with a gentle scolding note to eat them, something despite feeling guilty Elliot rarely did.

            At first they’d not openly discussed Elliot’s profession but it was common knowledge that in his younger days Gimoaldo had been a fierce guerilla fighter of renowned back in Cuba. Salem just figured it took a soldier to know one and accepted Gimoaldo’s friendship unconditionally, secretly wishing on yet another level that he could allow himself to just trust enough to open up and talk to the kind yet strong old soldier. Then one night about a year and a half ago Elliot staggered up to the shop’s front door, drunk, distraught and painfully beaten from a bar fight. He’d gone to Rios but the big man had turned him away after Samantha complained and lost he’d fled back into the night. Angry and desperate Salem had pounded on Gimo’s front door screaming for Gimoaldo not even sure why he’d gone there or how he’d even arrived. Gimoaldo took him in and listened silently to the young man’s story while gently and reverently treating his wounds. Ever since that night Gimoaldo was the only one Elliot ever spoke with about work. Gimoaldo was his ears, his secret source for unconditional compassion, his confessor.  

       Now Gimoaldo, Papi to Elliot, lay paralyzed in the hospital and rather than give in and close the decade’s old shop Calixto left his city job in trading and took over vowing to continue his father’s battle. He still bore the bruises of a recent beating.  

       The following evening at the gym Salem confronted Calixto and got the whole story from him. Then he promised the trouble was over. Calixto had laughed and thanked Salem; saying that if the police could do little what could one man do? And that he’d die before giving up the shop. Elliot smiled and shook his head correcting Calixto, ‘Not one man mi amigo but two. Leave it to me. It’s what I know.’ Three months later the gang was still gone, Gimoaldo was home from the hospital and business was once again brisk. Calixto knew enough not to ask for more information. He moved his wife and daughters into the apartment upstairs and gratefully accepted their new life for what it was.

       Calixto’s voice drew him back to the task at hand.

       “Talk to me Papi; what do you need? A big Prime Rib for Gordo? Here look at that one. Not good enough, Jorge can cut another fresh, that’s fresh too but you know…”

       “No that one’s a good size, leave it sit though and get him to cut me…I got Rios, Giddy, Heck, Tyse and Sam’s old men, Bree’s dad so gimme seven just like that and six of those Fillet Mignons for the ladies and no wait, there’s Sam’s girlfriends  men so make that eleven and two extra…”

        “So, fourteen, you skinny boy! You count yourself, Sancho? I hear this one and that one but no me! Fifteen of the Prime Ribs, Calixto! That’s fourteen and one for him to take to his home for tomorrow. Feed my favorite son, my Sancho here well. Come here Elliot kiss your Papi’s cheek and let him see you.”

       Salem shrugged to Calixto and crossed to Gimoaldo wheeling his way through the parting crowd. They met and Salem leaned down for his obligatory kiss and tug of his waistline.

       “Ah, you’re skin and bones again Sancho! Come your table waits for you. Come, Calixto will make your order right. And if he tells me you tried to pay, Sancho, ach, you’ll have more than the fat one’s wife biting at your skinny ass! I have Espresso and a new Boudin. Little fried slices made from seafood, you’ll love it, come taste.”

       Once in the back room Elliot took his seat after gentle wheeling Gimoaldo into place then sat quietly while the man poured them each a strong Espresso and served a small portion of the newest Boudin.

      “How are you, Papi?”

       “Good, great now that I am back sleeping in my old room. I missed my poor lost beautiful Clarita, but now again her spirit keeps me company in bed. Funny thing happened. A company, they come and install an elevator, Sancho. Just a small one but it goes up and it goes down. Then another company they come and put in a new bathroom and redo the kitchen fix the doorways wider, renovate for Calixto’s family to fit better; good work too. Funny thing though my beloved Sancho, I did not order these things. Calixto he cannot afford these things, so Sancho my Sancho will you tell your Papi the truth?”

       “He used money from the benefit maybe, Papi? Didn’t want to worry you. I don’t know. This is wonderful Boudin though. You have some ready I can take with me? It’ll be a great in between food with some little crackers and sour cream and chives maybe.”

       “Yea, that could maybe work. Ah, so my elevator’s just another secret, like your secret rib marinade recipe, Sancho?”

       “Yea s’pose so, Papi.”

       “You still pretend to make it? Still, Gordo is fooled?”

       “Of course.”

       “How do I thank you, Sancho, my heart’s favorite son?”

       Gimoaldo reached across the small café table, grasped Elliot’s hands in his and squeezed them his eyes welling with tears. Elliot basked in Gimoaldo’s reverence yet desperately feared it would come between the father and son.

       “Just keep listening when I need to talk, Papi. Just be here to listen. Look I gotta scram. Rios’ll think I’m bailing on the BBQ.”

        “Ok, Ok. I’m here. My ears are getting full of hair, Sancho, but they still listen good. Calixto will have your order by now and here, here’s the new Boudin and some nice fresh Broccoli, Spinach and Asparagus. Toss the crackers and cream in on your way out. You need these greens, Sancho promise your Papi, promise and go with God always.”

      Elliot took the basket, studied the green vegetables and sighed.

       “I promise, Papi. Love you always.”

       He kissed the man’s leathery cheek, daubed away the final tears with battered right thumb and slipped away.

***********

       Thirty minutes later Salem pulled onto Rios’ street and parked his truck behind Giddy’s Suburban. He smiled, despite his gloomy mood, at the big silver vehicle. Giddy hated the truck but his wife had insisted upon buying it. They had two boys and no need for third row seating but some of the other wives at the boys’ private school drove them so she had to have one too. The most she ever toted in the big vehicle was a week’s worth of groceries and a mountain of cash for gas. It was situations like the Suburban that made Salem thankful he had no wife or kids to appease. That alone just might be worth the price of feeling lonely now and again.

       As he gathered his packages he took note of the other cars lining the dirt road in the rural deed restricted subdivision. Samantha’s Forest green Range Rover, and behind it Heckler’s little red Honda Prius, which the man despised, but drove to keep his eco-friendly wife who also drove one happy. Last Christmas Salem had stolen both cars and had them wrapped at a local sign shop. Heck’s in a camouflage wrap to man it up a bit and Zoe’s in a zebra pattern but with fluorescent pink and green stripes. The couple had quite the shock on Christmas morning and he wasn’t sure Heck’s wife had entirely forgiven him yet.

       Rios’ parents’ silver rental Honda came next. They were visiting from New York and had flown in early that morning. Sam’s parents’ fully loaded black Volvo wagon, purchased of course by Rios, was there and Bree’s father’s 1989 F-150 that he’d wrangled away from Salem two years ago. Salem missed the old blue truck and regretted losing it Frank in a Craps game. The rest of the company consisted of Samantha’s girlfriends all of whom despite varying states of wedlock or relationships insisted upon trying to get Salem into bed. The sick part was, that having failed, they all told one another elaborate lies about their supposed escapades with him. He figured he should feel flattered but in reality him, Rios, and the guys all felt the situation was tad sick.

       Packages in hand he trundled up to the big stained glass double doors of the sprawling ranch style home and jammed at the doorbell. Moments later it pulled inward and Rios’ mother greeted him with a broad smile and a kiss on the cheek.

       “Elliot, finally! Nala and Tyson are both beside themselves worrying you wouldn’t show up. Here let me take something the basket, here hand it over. Oh, you look tired honey, I’m so glad you came. Come on follow me, Rios is out at the grills with the guys and Samantha’s well…” She stopped short causing Salem to bump into her and wagged a finger at him. “She’s out back with those harpy girlfriends of hers. Ugh that woman! And the kids are swimming.”

        Salem followed along dutifully listening to the woman chatter on about their flight and subsequent nightmare getting the rental car which was why they’d missed Nala’s game, until finally they made it to the kitchen and deposited the groceries.

      "Now honey go get a beer and get out to Tyson; I’ll put this stuff up.”

        “Ok but did Tyse and Giddy make the rub for the steaks? And here, this is a new Boudin. A Shrimp Boudin. Little thin slices for an appetizer the crackers go with it and the Sour Cream. That can get set out if you want."

      “Oh, it looks and smells wonderful. I received the package you sent us last month, the Noir, and oh my word my Bridge group absolutely loved it. You are such a doll.”

       “Ugh, don’t tell Tyse I’m a doll, Ms. Mimi. The guys’ll never let me live that down.”

       “Oh stop it, they love you. Now go, go you have time before the smoker’s ready for the ribs and just try and enjoy the day.”

“Oh and there’s some green stuff in the basket too. Asparagus and Broccoli or something. Bury it in the fridge. I don’t do green stuff.”

       “Well you need to. Ah yes very nice green stuff at that. I’ll just cook it up you can give it a try. Now skedaddle.”

       Salem took a beer and an extra for Tyson and headed out through the triple sliding glass doors leading from the big country kitchen out to the pool area. Ten kids splashed and hollered in the large free form pool playing water basketball; while Samantha and her friends lounged in the shallow end and just as Mimi had said Rios and the guys were standing round the grills. He made his way over trying to ignore Samantha’s blatant look of disappointment and contempt.

       “Hey Boss.”

      “’Bout damn time Kermit; fuck Nala’s driving me nuts. That beer better be for me.”

       “Yup. What, Heck, what?” He squawked his voice a bit nasally as sometimes happened when he was angry.

       “When they said pink I didn’t think they meant ‘pink’. Dude that outfit’s gay man. Holy fuck, Fifty I know guys who’d swear all those rumors about you and Rios were true if they saw you in that get up.”

       His comment garnered snickering from Samantha’s girlfriend’s dates or husbands. Elliot bristled at the outsiders then confronted Heckler.

       “Fuck you Heck, the kids love it; brings them luck and hey, hell maybe the rumors are true.”

        “Salem.” Rios growled in warning.

       “Nah, after so many years one of us would of caught you by now. Besides Giddy here always figured it was really Tyannikov you really had a hard on for.”

       “Honey!” Zoe snapped punching her husband of eight years in the arm.

      “Ow babe. Just sayin’. Am I wrong, Giddy?”

       Before Giddy could reply Salem turned the pink hat around backwards and stared at Heckler his hazel eyes glinting with rage. Heckler read the warning and grinned.

      “Yea, that’s the ticket, Fifty. Pink hat on backwards, way more manly, now I’m fucking shaking in my bare feet. What’d that Mozart guy say? I think the lady bitches too much.”

       “Shakespeare you ignorant fuck and how about I shove this hat up your…”

       “You get the steaks, Elliot?” Bree’s father Frank cut in trying to diffuse the situation.

        Frank owned a Concrete contracting business and although he hung out with the group frequently but he’d never really been able to quite tell when the situation was going to explode into an all-out fight. His crew consisted of tough blue collar brawlers but as far as he was concerned Rios’ guys were a whole different animal. There was always far too much Testosterone floating round when the team hung out together. These were big guys who liked big guns and crazy life threatening adventures. They probably did not need to antagonize one another. Yet it always seemed that was the case when the group partied together. A continuous volley of poking and taunting of one another that the men did not seem able to control and while the spats normally ended in friendly rivalry Frank had witnessed fights between them. Usually brutal confrontations leaving someone hurt, which scared him. To compound his concern he knew first hand that Salem’s temper was edgy even at the best of times. More worrisome was that the younger man’s mood was already antsy from having to deal with Samantha’s harassment at the soccer game.

      “Yea there inside, Frankie. Tyse’s mom is doing the rub.” Salem answered without looking away from Heckler’s teasing eyes. “Ribs gotta go on first though.”

       “I’ll get them. Fire should be ready.” 

       “Yea, you do that.”

        As Frank turned away from the group Nala charged up and wrapped her arms around Elliot’s waist from behind drawing his attention from Heckler. He startled a bit and turned to face her.

       “Uncle Elliot, Uncle Elliot you came!”

       “Course, I did And –A-Half! Ugh you’re all wet, girly.”

       “Course I am.” She mimicked jumping up and down joyfully tugging on his free hand. “I’m swimming! Get your suit on, come on, come on.”

       “No, take your old man in he needs a good bath, I’m cooking.”

       “No, no, no! He’s no fun! Uncle E, please.”

     “Your suit’s in the bathroom in my office, Ellie. Pony up boy your fans await you.” Rios prompted, thankful for Nala’s timing.

     “Ok, ok I’ll be right back. But your old man here, he better take damn good care a my ribs.”

       “Yippee! Just hurry up ok. I need you for my team.”

 

NOTE: I’m going to end this chapter here I think. There’s quite a bit of stuff that still needs to happen at the BBQ. The problem is I am really struggling with this and I don’t want to cut stuff out shooting for completion. I Hope you all enjoy it despite there not being a mission but that will happen later. I will try to update it promptly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           


	3. Grilled and Smoked With A Splash of Attitude

_ FROM A CHILD’S PLATE  _

_ Grilled and Smaoked With A Splash of Attitude _

_ CHAPTER THREE _

           

Salem shot Heckler a final glare and padded across the pool area and back through the house. He ignored the look Sam’s mother Grace shot at him from the kitchen where she was helping  Rios’ mother, Ms. Mimi cook and went straight for the heavy cherry double doors leading into Rios’ newly built office off the family room on rear of the house.

            “Hey, off limits, Salem!” Sam’s father Art shouted from the nearby family area where he was watching a college football game alone.

            “What?”

            Salem spat back and watched as the arrogant Izod clad, Miami Dade police detective crossed to him then chuckled derisively when he tried to bar the door.

            “My Samantha said Tyson says no one’s allowed in there; it’s _his_ area. Samantha’s not even allowed in so what do you think you’re doing, son?”

            “Drop the son pops, I’d sooner have a fuckin’ test tube for a parent.”

            “Watch it Salem, I’m not going to coddle your cocky little ass like Tyson does and I’m in no mood for your lip. Have you heard the stuff Nala spouts out lately? You need to learn to have some respect. Tyson said no one goes in there and I intend to see his orders met.”

            “Yea, you and whose army _detective_? I’m a little too old for the respect lesson, pops. ‘Sides even if I could learn it you damn sure aren’t man enough to teach it to me; so respect this, Mr. Detective.” He snapped reaching into his pocket and dragging out his keys. He held them up in front of Art’s bulging Martini glazed eyes and in a sing song voice recited.

            “This little key goes to my hovel and this little key to my truck. And this little key’s for Rios’ and this little key here, his front door. Now this little key it’s going all the way home to… guess where, detective,  Art? Well look at that; Tyson’s new office. And I’ll huff and I’ll puff and poofity click… looks like I’m the only fucker on the approved visitor list. So respect that motherfucker. I’ve got a pool party to attend and my bathing suit’s in _my closet_ in Tyson’s _private_ office.”

            Salem pushed through the door, slammed it shut behind himself in Art’s flushed face, locked it and leaned back defensively against the barrier just in case.

            “Salem! Salem open this door immediately! Salem! I’m warning you. Salem! They fucked up giving you a chance boy!”

            “Holy Christ and fuck me twice Rios, the shit I put up with to be your friend. Sometimes I think rotting away in the Louisiana’s state pen mighta been the better deal.”

            Art’s pounding finally ceased and Elliot, satisfied that he’d retreated,  made his way across the well-appointed space and into the large bathroom. Just as Tyson had said his tattered red board shorts were hanging from a hook in the shower stall. He changed and headed out but stopped short. Turning he eyed the pile of pink clothes littering the neat bathroom and picked them up. Tyson would have a fit over the sloppy pile. He carefully folded them and stowed the items in the closet Rios had built into the office for him. It held spare clothes and workout attire as well as a second gun safe for Salem’s weapons for when Elliot stayed over before they deployed; which was their typical routine. The office had a huge plush leather couch that Salem had chosen for its comfort when sleeping, even though Rios had built him a small sleeping alcove. Rios called the huge piece of furniture a laziness magnet, swearing that if he passed to near it he ended up napping or watching television. All told the office was as large as a small studio apartment and had most of the same amnesties including a well-stocked wet bar.

            Clothes put away Salem took a deep breath and headed back out of the door, across the house and to the pool. Once on the patio he paused and took note of the position of the laughing kids, Samantha and her bevy of girlfriends.

            “Perfect.” He purred sardonically to himself. “Couldn’t have set it up better if I’d planned it.” Then at the top of his lungs, “Frag out!”

            Samantha and gang had no time to move as the grinning man dashed forward and launched into the air just feet away from them. He hit the water from about six feet high in a fully tucked cannon ball. The ensuing splash and wave drenched them and most dumped their frilly colorful drinks trying to dodge the attack. Their shrill screams drowned out the raucous laughter of the men and the kids but Salem couldn’t hear it. Instead of popping straight back up he swam under water and surfaced beneath the floating basketball hoop his head poking through the barely wide enough hole. He slung his near chin length bangs out of his face spraying water at the kids and taunted the giggling group.

            “Betch’a can’t hit me, come on show me whatch’a got you useless little heathens!”

            The kids immediately set about trying to hit him with the ball and the new game was on. They’d throw at him and he’d dunk down and reappear so they could try again. Finally an hour later and bored with being their target he slipped under and surfaced stealthily beneath Nala. He lifted her high over his head and flew her toward the net. Then he flipped the squealing girl upside down and tried to slam dunk her head first into the net. The new game was met with a chorus of ‘me nexts’ and Elliot obliged, trying to slam dunk all of the willing kids into the hoop. For the moment he forgot all about Samantha and her parents, he forgot all about Heckler’s taunting, he forgot pretty much all negativity in his life and allowed himself to relish in the simplistic joy of play, something his own less than happy childhood had not allowed him to indulge in.

            Over at the grilling area Samantha’s friends complained to their husbands and dates about the watery attack. Fortunately all the men had sense enough to simply smooth the situation over and not confront Salem. Rios quickly tuned out Sam, turned away and began wire brushing the warming grill grates for the steaks and burgers. Brett, Hillary’s husband slunk away from his griping wife as well and joined him. He was ex Air Force, currently working in IT and of all Sam’s friends’ men the only one who at least tried to cross over into the very cliquish group.

            “Need a hand? I’m a fair cook on a grill. My old man was our neighborhood grill master when I was a kid.”

            Rios considered the offer. If nothing else he was a veteran, and Hillary, his wife, was as loose as Samantha when it came to sleeping around. Tyson actually felt a slight affinity to the cuckolded man. He’d also come in and set up all the electronics in Tyson’s new office. Maybe Elliot planned on dodging bullets for the rest of his life but Tyson’s main reason for the new office was to fill it as much electronic hardware as possible so that he could educate himself enough to run the inside end of mission operations.

            “Yea sure, here clean that one off. We’ll need both.”

            Brett took the proffered brush slid slightly to Rios’ right and began to scrub at the charred iron grates.

            “This grill is sweet man. My old man would die for a set up like this.”

            “Yea, well hey next time he’s in town let me know. You guys can come over swim and we’ll grill.”

            “Will Salem be here?”

            Rios’ hackles twitched a bit but then he considered that Hillary waged a constant battle to get Elliot into bed and of course the common rumor was that she had.  He sighed and decided to let the man off the hook.

            “Look I like you man, of all of you guys on the outside you’re the only one I’d really let in. So I’m gonna level with you. Salem, he hasn’t fucked Hillary.”

            “No it’s not that it’s…”

            “Yea it is, Brett and trust me Sam’s about as faithful as; well I can’t think of anything not faithful enough; so I know what you have to deal with. No Brett, Salem’s never touched any of those bitches no offense to your wife. Wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole, so yea he will probably be here. Think about it Brett in case you haven’t noticed he is sort of attached to my hip.”

            “Oh, ok yea then that would be good. Sorry about Samantha man, shit.”

            “Mother of my child so I cope.”

            “Yea, I feel you. Hey, how’s the office? Everything still online and running smooth?”

            “Yea, hell yea and thanks couldn’t have done it without you.”

            “Hey, Rios you better look at this!” Giddy shouted as Tyson and Brett set their brushes aside.

            The two men turned back to the pool just in time to see Elliot lead the entire group of kids in a ten yard charge once again toward where the women had resettled comfortably in the water with new drinks.

            “Salem!”

            The plea went unheard and eleven bodies slammed into the water three feet from the women and this time the wave and splash completely doused them leaving their primped and teased hair drooping and their makeup in ruins. Once they surfaced the small squad of swimmers cheered forward by Salem began a brutal barrage of splashing that finally drove the sputtering ladies out of the pool and into the safety of the patio bathroom. He hefted Nala onto his shoulders and the kids began cheering with him.

            “Our pool, our pool, our pool, big people go home!”

            “I’m gonna kill him.”

            “On average, if you don’t mind me asking, how many times do you threaten him with that a week?”

            Rios busted up laughing and slapped Brett on the left shoulder.

            “Who’re kidding? A week! Try a day. Salem, Nala that’s enough. Salem!”

            “What Tyse?” he shouted up at Rios his arms spread wide grinning from ear to ear. “Just playing, Tubby, playing, it’s good for you.”

            “I’ll give you, good for you, Elliot! We have to live with them and I don’t mean the kids.”

            “Not my fault.”

            He waded toward where Tyson stood at the edge of the pool and reached back his left arm.

            “You do it and your skinny bitch ass is mine, Elliot. Kids out! Get dry and get ready for dinner!”

            The order was met with a chorus of squealing complaints.

            “Ok, ok Tyse; man… all a you… hey you munchkins out. Let’s go, let’s go, poopy pants Tyson’s spoiling our fun. Night time Marco Polo later.”

            Elliot turned from Tyson and began herding the children up the steps and out of the pool. They were met by their moms, none of whom were part of Samantha’s guest list and hustled away to dry off and settle down for supper.

Elliot trailed out after them and headed straight for Tyson and the guys. When he got just behind Rios he shook his head like a dog and doused the bigger man as he spread out the hamburgers across the grill.

       “Salem!”

       “What, it’s a pool party, getting wet is a mandatory thing.”

      Then he trailed his fingers in his mop of hair, took Tyson’s beer and stepped toward the smoker where his ribs were cooking.

     “Hey gimme that!”

       “Old, fat and slow big guy; old, fat and slow.”

       An hour later dinner was served. The kids sat round their table and the adults at another larger one. Just into the meal Nala stepped up and approached Elliot with a covered platter. She looked to Tyson’s mom who nodded then pushed onto the bench seat between Heckler’s wife Zoe and him.

      “Gotcha a dinner surprise, Uncle E. ready? Made it myself.”

       Elliot set his fork aside and looked at her then across to Ms. Mimi.

      “I suppose?”

       “Great! Tada!”

       She set the platter down and snatched off the lid with a flourish.

      Salem leaned back and groaned.

      “It’s green, And a Half.”

       “Yup, Grama Mimi says green is good. And this is _fresh_ green too, the best.”

       “I don’t eat green, fresh or otherwise, kiddo.”

       “You’d deny your adorable niece. Taste it. Come on, I made the dressing, oil and Balsamic vinegar with a little garlic, myself. Well me and Grama Mimi, I tossed it too with the big forks.”

        “What’s the matter tough guy, afraid of a little salad?” Art sneered.

     Salem glared down the table at the insipid man and sighed.

      “Tyse?”

       “It’s a salad Elliot taste it. It’s not like she’s asking you to bum rush an MMG. “’Sides the kid’s right, green’s good for a growing boy.”

      “Growing? That’s good, Tyse, cute. Growing, ha ha. Shut up, Heck.”

       “Giddy?”

      “Hell man, she is adorable.”

       “God turncoats one and all. Fine, what is it.”

       “Great! Baby spinach, with Soy Bean Sprouts, and that’s Arugula…”

      “Aruga who?”

       “Like lettuce. Those are baby carrot strings and here’s some nice shitake mushroom, Feta cheese that’s from sheep’s milk and…”

       “Stop!”

      Elliot took a deep breath and plunged his fork into the heaping salad stabbing around and gathering up some Spinach, Sprouts, a Shitake and a smidgen of the Arugula and Feta. He shoved the pile into his mouth and chewed. The group all watched in silent anticipation.

       “Remember your manners, Kermit; it’s rude to make a face when you don’t like something.”

       “Fu…”

       “Don’t curse with your mouth full, Fifty! What are you thinking?” Giddy snapped reaching behind Heckler and smacking Salem in the back of his head.

        Salem began to chew again and finally managed to choke down the salad sample. He grabbed for his beer to wash it down but Heckler snatched it away.

       “Oh no, no, no, tell her what you think first. You ain’t tasting wine and cheese, Fifty. Savor that flavor.”

       “Wow, Heck that’s a cool rhyme, Savor that Flavor. That’s gonna be me and Grama Mimi’s restaurant saying!”

       Heckler high fived her and she turned back to Salem.

      “Well?”

       Salem looked around the table finally locking eyes with Rios. His demeanor said don’t hurt her feelings but Elliot knew Nala was tougher than that.

       “Tastes like grass.”

       “Grass! Like you’ve ever eaten grass, mister. Grass! My salad doesn’t taste…Grama Mimi? Grass, Uncle Elliot?”

       “God you’re an ass, Kermit.”

       “What Nala? Grass it’s green and it tastes grassy. That should be good, no? That green stuff is grassy, what?” He squealed.

       “When have you ever eaten grass, Uncle Elliot? How do you even know what grass tastes like?”

       “I have eaten grass. I have eaten grass and bugs and snails and bark and these even.” He protested stabbing at a mushroom, “but they damn near killed my as.. well me.”

      Nala was looking at him in stunned disbelief. They were face to face only inches apart and she’d wrinkled up her nose and pressed her small hands against his shoulders as if to keep him at bay.

      “Well it’s true. I was lost for weeks and it was all I had. Ask your old man. I was skin and bones when we first met from only eating green stuff and bugs!”

       “Bugs, you ate bugs. You have bug breath and I just smelled it. I kissed you good morning, you’ve kissed me to sleep with bug lips eeeew!”

       She swiped her forearm across her lips and slid back from him as far as she could before pushing Zoe out of place.

       “It was a long time ago. I’ve brushed my teeth thousands a times since then.”

       “No he hasn’t, don’t trust him Nala; terrible oral hygiene.”

      “Fuck you, Heckler. Ow! Damn it Giddy that one hurt. I brush my teeth Nala. Who you gonna believe?”

      “I don’t know, Uncle Elliot but _they_ like salad. They eat salad, they understand green’s good for them and you don’t and that’s why you’re always gonna be just a skinny ass little bitch.”

       “Nala!” Rios wailed.

      “Here Uncle Heck; you eat it. I’m through here.”

       Once she turned away the table broke up into crazed laughter. Rios threw down his napkin and buried his face in his hands. Finally he looked up and studied the group. All were laughing except Samantha and her folks. He wanted to laugh. He loved, despite the often awkwardness of it, the interaction Nala and Salem had with one another. The little girl understood him on a level that the rest of them did not.

       “Lighten up, Tyson.” Heckler offered. “It’s just how they roll.”

       Tyson smiled and began to laugh as well. Salem sat silently waiting for the table to just get back to eating and for his shame to pass. Heckler stood up went behind him and hugged him.

       “Oh come on now Fifty, smile; it’s only a salad and her undying love she’s given me. ‘ Sides we all love your skinny ass. Right guys? Gives us something to lust after during those long lonely missions.”

       Salem shrugged him off and started to laugh.

       “Hey, slayed by a nine year old girl, none a you can claim that; so I’m still the bomb!”

        The laughter ramped up again but Art had heard enough.

       “You think her behavior is funny, Tyson?”

     The tone of his voice, nasty and confrontational silenced the table at once.

      “What Art?” he replied snickering despite himself.

      “I said…”

      “I heard you.”

     “She was, despite my disdain for that one,” he pointed at Salem. “Rude and disrespectful. Disrespectful to all of us with such language. She should be punished and not be allowed to be anywhere near him. I’m certain she learned that behavior from him. I swear Tyson, I will not allow his sick, degenerate and ignorant behavior to destroy my granddaughter! I’ll sue for custody and take her out of this madness first. I am well aware of his history. I’ve pulled down a favor, I unsealed his files.”

       The table went completely still and even the children, sensing the new tense atmosphere, stopped talking. Giddy stood up and placed his hands on Salem’s tensed shoulders. Heckler followed and flanked Rios. Both knew that one man or the other was set to go over the table and take out Art. Rios cleared his throat, leaned forward on his elbows and faced Samantha’s father.

       “This is my home, she is my daughter, he is my brother and partner. We are bound  in blood. This dinner will continue without any further outbursts or threats from you or yours. Now shut your fucking pious trap detective and eat before I come over there and shred you, understood. Do not threaten the only two people I love ever again. And as for you _illegally_ unsealing Elliot’s juvenile records, we will discuss that after I talk to my lawyer and your internal affairs officer. Now these are some fine steaks that Elliot brought us and they’re getting cold so eat everyone, just let’s all eat.”

        Giddy and Heckler returned to their seats and the group began to eat again. It didn’t take long for jovial conversation and beers to erase the black mood and Rios felt relived. Salem had restrained himself and even gotten back into a festive mood and for Rios that was the high point of the night.

      Once the plates had been taken away by Mimi and Sam’s mother with the help of Giddy and Heckler’s wives, Nala came back over. She sat down next to Elliot, reached out and grasped his right hand in hers. She was a smart and empathic child far above her years and she knew that Elliot, despite his smiles and laughter, was hurting. She drew his hand up to her lips and kissed it.

       “Sorry, wanna yell at me?”

       “No. Never been real good at scolding you, kiddo.”

       “It’s ok if I kissed bug lips. Ok too that you don’t eat green stuff. I kinda like you smallish anyway easier to hug all of you. Arms are still short, see?”

      Then she knelt on the bench and faced him. She grasped his stubble rough face in her palms and looked him in the eyes.

       “But it’s not ok to be sad. Ok. No one can take me from you. Kiss now ‘cause I gotta go play hide and seek.”

      He smiled and they pecked lips together. He drew her into a tight hug and set her down on the ground.

      “Go on then skedaddle. Be careful and I love you too, And-a-Half.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

           

 

 

           


	4. The Grass Op

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nala convinces Elliot to finally tell the team what happened to him in Sarajevo before he came to them in North Africa.

_ From A Child’s Plate _

_ Chapter Four _

_ The Grass op _

__

 

 

 

            Later, after Marco Polo had finished, Rios and Elliot lit the patio lanterns and the fire pit. Then with kids asleep for the night and Samantha’s girlfriend gone the group all settled into chairs or settees around the glowing basket with their wives. Only Salem sat alone until Nala re-appeared from in the house where she should have been sleeping with the rest of the kids. She crawled up into Salem’s lounge chair and rested lazily back against his chest. They both wore one of Rios’ SSC sweat shirts. Elliot’s swallowed him but Nala actually had to roll hers up at the waist to keep it from dragging on the ground. Tyson and Samantha both knew it would be futile to order her off to bed so they let her alone. Once she dozed off Elliot could carry her in. All Rios cared about was that everyone seemed happy and that the conversation had remained light. Of course life being what it was that would change.

            “The steaks were great again, Elliot.”

            “Thanks Frankie.”

            “When are you gonna give in and tell us where you get them man, sharing’s a good thing you know.”

            “Never. You want ‘em, tell me and I’ll go get ‘em.”

            “Sure beats the hell outta eating grass and worms. Did you really eat that stuff, Elliot? Come on man sounds a little like too Rambo-ie and not real life.”

            Rios groaned. Salem’s mood was happy despite the morning soccer game and Art’s revelation about unsealing his juvenile records. He didn’t need the man reflecting back to Sarajevo and getting depressed.

            “Let it go, Brett.”

            “No tell us Uncle Elliot, really it’s true?”

            “Nala.”

            “But Daddy, Uncle Elliot never tells good fighting stories like you guys do. I wanna hear about the bugs.”

            “Isn’t it time for munchkins to be in bed, kiddo?”

            “No Uncle Elliot no; I wanna hear about the grass op.”

            “The grass op?” Giddy broke in chuckling. She might just be spending a tad too much time hanging around with them. “Look Nala it is true. When we first met your Uncle there he wasn’t much bigger than, well, Zoe. Yea…sound about that right, Heck?”

            “I’d say so. Probably one-twenty-five soaking wet and beat to shit.”

            “Your Uncle Elliot well, he’d been through hell.”

            “Yup, then your mean and cranky old man over there put me through another two months’ worth; sorry fat fucker that he was.”

            Nala looked upside down at Elliot and took his face in her hands.

            “That really true?”

            “True.”

            “Daddy you didn’t.

            “I did.”

“The op though, tell us.” She whined.

            Salem looked around at the group finally locking eyes with Art who was blatantly daring him to share the story in hopes he’d fail at serving up something dreadful enough to garner their sympathies. He completely doubted the legitimacy of Salem’s claim and would love to see the young man embarrass himself. Salem looked away, leaned forward slightly dislodging Nala and grabbed the bottle of Bourbon that they’d been passing around. He started to refill his glass, then stopped and held the bottle up studying the swirling contents for a moment. It was two thirds full. He grinned across at Art, tossed his glass at a nearby garbage can getting it in without touching the sides and took a long swig from his new drink.

            The mood grew tense again and Heckler rescued it.

            “That’s my Fifty, spot on with a long gun and a smooth as silk with a hand grenade. Cheers, Elliot.”

            “Cheers Heck.”

            “I taught the boy how to do that by the way. Couldn’t hit shit when we first adopted him.”

            “Bugs and grass, Uncle E. like daddy tells you stay focused, Kermit.”

            The group got quiet and Rios studied Elliot across the fire in the flickering light. His eyes had darkened a bit and his jaw had tensed. He was going to finally tell what happened to him on his last U.N. mission before arriving in Djibouti and becoming one of them. More importantly he was actually going to talk about work which Salem never did. He considered giving the young man a way out but thought better of it after Giddy met his eye and nodded in agreement. He sighed and waited for Salem to speak. After nearly ten years maybe it was time.

            “They inserted us way deep behind enemy lines. Fuck the politics. I didn’t understand them then and still don’t. Just know we were buried in their territory. Objective was too recon, locate and either take out or call in coordinates for the artillery embedded in the rough mountains around the city.”

            He took a swig of Bourbon and continued in a low deep voice.

            “We were gonna be active for about a month, six weeks tops. We were gonna sweep north and east around the east side of the city. Say from six o’clock to twelve cleaning up as we went then extract out. First two objectives went easy. We took both down with no problems. The third was a small deserted village spotted by aerial surveillance, one our few listed targets. They were bringing ammo for the nearby mortars in through it and we were to take it down. Me and my spotter, Petrovich D. I could never say his last name even though I speak Russian…”

            “You speak Russian!”

            “Yea Art he speaks Russian, pretty damned good at it too, detective.” Giddy snapped.

 “Anyway, so I called him P.D.. Me and P.D. were set up in a nice defensive sniper hide. Good visual for the whole little village, we felt like we had our guys covered. We scoped everything, gave Frenchy, our leader, the go ahead and they moved down into the small village. We’d reconed that bitch for two days and nothing had moved. Frenchy figured it had been abandoned. I reminded him looks can be fucked up but he headed in bold as brass anyway.”

            Salem paused sighed deeply drank from his bottle and squeezed his eyes shut.

            “Ellie…”

            “S’ok Tyse. It all went down pretty quick. There was six of us down there just waltzing down the dirt road. Again I told him to get his guys under cover stop being so stupid. He cut off his radio. All we could do was watch. The first volley took down Frenchy and two others. Names don’t matter they ain’t got heads anymore. We immediately tried to triangulate and find the snipers. Impossible. They were too well hidden and using silencers. From the angle that the shots needed to come from we did know that they were up in hills and probably seven hundred meters out easy. We were eight in the opposite direction. Fuck even if we could pin them down we couldn’t really reach them. Anyway the other three panicked and instead of going for cover just fucking milled around; in shock I guess. Then bang, well no bang really, another three simultaneous head shots and after ten short minutes, on our fifth day, at only our third target with a month still to go, P.D. and I were alone, 150 klicks behind enemy lines with no supplies but what we carried and our entire squad ambushed.”

            “150 klicks? What’s that in regular speak, Elliot?”

            “Oh…right at about 100 miles, Frankie. Not a good place considering our situation and it wasn’t likely they would just drop in and extract us; we were working dark and fucked.”

            “Wish you’d watch your language sonny, mixed company here.”

            “Another word Art and I’m gonna gag your ass.”

            “No, Giddy you gag him if you want but me I’m just gonna cut out his tongue.”

            “Oh, Uncle Heck can I help, I skinned a fish last weekend!”

            “See…”

            “Shut it gramps!”

            “Thanks Giddy. So the good thing is we were about ninety-eight percent sure they didn’t know we were out there. We’d dropped off from the main squad two days back to do the surveillance. Bad thing was we had no fucking idea how they’d made the team. They could obviously see them and knew, which was the scarier part, that they were coming. Their snipers were picture perfect hidden. I was green as fuck but I was good and P.D. was better. We never saw anything move out there for two days. The bastards had to have been in place and waiting.”

            He took another long drink, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of Rios’ blue sweatshirt and shook his head.

            “Our guys were down there and we had to stay put. We had to let them just lay there. I wanted to call it in but P.D. said no. Whoever set it up might be listening and then our cover would be blown too. Even if the count was short at least we had some distance on them. We needed to wait them out. They were bound to come down and confirm the kills. Besides that there was no way they would pass up looting the bodies. So we waited. We waited for seven hours until just before dark. Then four guys slipped through the door of the nearest house. And again we never saw them; they were that good. Two acted as sentries and two  dragged the guys into the house.”

            “I can’t believe you just left them dying like that. Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are. Maybe you were just a coupla’ cowards too chicken shit to go down and save you buddies. Maybe…”   

            Art never saw Giddy’s wicked back fist coming. The punch knocked him out of his chair and sent him sprawling. Before he could regroup the big man had the old detective by his throat.

            “Warned you Art. I do not give a rat’s ass whose father or grandfather you are. You insult my man again and the only thing you will be is a floater in that pool.”

            “Tye, are you going to allow them to treat my dad like this? Tyson!”

            “Shut up Sam, get him up and tell him to keep his mouth shut and then no he might make it through the night.”

            “Mom! Do something!”

            “He’s your husband dear you put a collar on him and his barbaric buddies. I’m going to bed. And Art if you were smart you would join me.”

            Salem watched her kiss a cringing Nala on the cheek, as she headed for bed; ignoring the flitter of goose bumps that he felt at her nearness. They were all so dysfunctional and in such denial about it. At least when he was a kid all the adults around him knew how messed up they were and just went with it. He thought for a moment that maybe he should be the one taking Nala away for her safety.

            “So… and for your edification Art, they were dead. Six perfectly executed head shots. We had excellent views of their brains draining into the snow through our high powered scopes. There was no saving them. On top of that these guys were not the snipers. They weren’t carrying long guns, just old AK’s. Those guys were still out there somewhere watching. For us to go down was suicide.

            After about two hours the sentries headed back in. We waited until dark and after the moon hit some clouds and we started down. I’d say six klicks maybe eight it took us five hours just worming on our bellies. We made it into the house and it wasn’t good.”

            Salem coughed and squirmed a little before drinking deeply from the Brandy and flipping his hat around backwards.

            “They’d…they’d ah butchered them. Yea...took everything, and yea…butchered them. P.D. was spinning out on me. He’d been with them over a year. Hitchcock and him were pretty tight and now Hitch was in pieces. He wanted to bury the parts of them all. Just dig through the heap, sort them out and bury them. I told him no, could be booby trapped. I’d heard of them doing that, I told him no. He finally just sat down in the corner and just started rocking. I was stuck, twenty-one years old, first real shit storm, second really but that’s another story; didn’t compare anyway and my spotter, the veteran has just gone section fucking eight on me.

       I told him to stay put I was gonna go upstairs and scope the terrain try and see how they’d gotten in and out, try and see if it was safe to move. I went up and was looking out of a back window, from like a bedroom maybe; it had an old brass bed. It was crazy because the glass was still good in the window. I was rubbing it clean to get a better look and bam next thing I know I’m down on the ground, cut to shit with the wind knocked outta me. I panicked. If the snipers were out there I was a target. I scurried into the wood line trying to cover my tracks, deaf and gasping, burrowed down as far as I could into the brush and snow and waited.

       Finally once my breath was back and I checked my injuries, right shoulder dislocated. Yea, Tyse that was the first time. Cuts to my face from the glass. Badly bruised ribs slight concussion maybe, I crept back into the street. The house was leveled. Nothing really left. The guys…the guys were gone. P.D. he didn’t listen. No one ever fucking listens to me.”

       Salem paused again this time for longer. Rios got up and retrieved beers for everyone including Salem. When he handed it to him he squeezed his shoulder tightly and patted his head. The younger man looked up at him and smiled a weak ineffectual smile. As Tyson re-took his seat he thought about Salem’s last comment. ‘No one ever fucking listens to me.’ Maybe that was why the man chose never to talk about work. Too many times burned by team mates just ignoring him. Aside from this event he could list off several others.

       “What about the grass, Uncle E.?”

        “The grass well…I finally worked my way back to our original hide and fixed myself up. Really struggled getting my shoulder back in. I radio in. As soon as Eamon, Major Darvish hears my voice he knows I’m in trouble. We were close. He liked me and despite ranks we played chess and talked a lot. I helped him with his Russian too. I tell him there’s a situation. I don’t know who to trust though. I don’t know who else can hear my coms. He reads me somehow and I hear him say clear the room. Now I have him alone. I fill him in and he’s stunned. He also agrees we’d been compromised. He asks if I can proceed with my mission. I tell him sure, not like you can come and get me so if I’m gonna walk out I might as well do my work while I’m at it. He calls for Staff Sergeant Fillmore my squad leader. We’re on a three way com and they’re arguing. Fillmore says I’m too green that green is bad. Darvish reminds him that I’m green but damned good and finally Fillmore agrees, we come up with a com plan so I don’t lose battery and give me the code name Green Giant and that’s that.

       I ran out of food pretty quickly. We all carried some but the bulk of it was also split up between us, everyone toting a part of the whole so to speak. Me, I was… well the smallest and I usually packed a little lighter. It just made sense so I went with it. On top of that, working alone I had to slow down. I had no scout, no rear guard just me. I needed to not get injured that would a death sentence. I called in everything I located and sniped or blew what I could. I don’t know what the fuckers ate ‘cause I never found shit for rations. All said I was being very effective except for starving to death.

       There was about a foot of snow on the ground and always more falling. I’d pack small amounts of it in separate containers in my ruck so it would melt so I had a minimal water supply. Following creeks is running the low ground; not a good plan. I watched what the occasional deer ate and ate that. I didn’t risk taking one. I snared rabbits a coupla times but that meant fire and that spelled trouble. I knew they had snipers good ones at that and then there was always the problem of having been sold out. Every time I called in a coordinate they had at least a half assed bead on my position. I needed to be invisible. I ate bark and lichens, stuff buried in the snow. I could get little snails sometimes and ants but single digit temps and humping up and down rugged slopes takes a shit load of calories.”

       “Did it taste good?”

       “No, kiddo but taste didn’t count, I just needed to stay alive. Four weeks in I started to feel like I wasn’t alone. Eamon said maybe I was just getting stir crazy and suggested I risk getting some better food. I agreed and made my way back toward an old hunt cabin I’d come across earlier that week. I hadn’t gone down to it the first time but after watching it for a day I risked it. If nothing else I hoped they had a root cellar. I’d seen shacks like it before that did.

       I move down the slope carefully and started to feel secure, then I made my way round toward the back which had good cover from the slope, less sniper advantage. I was maybe eighteen yards out and snap. My leg was on fire and for the first time I truly started to panic. It was a fucking animal trap. Chewed into my right leg from just at the top of my boot and up onto my calf and shin. The pain was unreal. I started crawling in a circle looking for the sniper but nothing…it was just an old forgotten trap. Finally I settled down and tried to open it. It’s hard, you can’t get leverage and I was weak from not eating too. I finally manage to get it started and a stick cracked out in the tree line. I startled and let the fucker loose. Snap it got me again. I woke up after dark damn near hypothermic and shaking so hard I thought I’d break my teeth. I drank some water, ate my last ants and some bark and went at the thing again. I got it free.

       I couldn’t move out so I moved into the shack. Place was empty but out of the wind. I risked a small fire, boiled snow in a long flat pan I’d found and tried to clean up my leg. Some of the gashes had cracked into my shin bone and I was afraid for infection. I dosed myself with antibiotics and stitched it that’s the best I could do. Problem was walking was near impossible. I reported in and Eamon pulled the plug. He called me back with extraction coordinates and a time line and I agreed. I’d had enough. Some forty-five mortar emplacements later some miscellaneous stuff and the op was over. all I had to do was hobble  one-thirty-five klicks to get to my ride.

       Two days later I took the trap with me, I don’t’ know why and moved out. I’d made maybe thirty klicks and stopped to rest. I ate some ants and a bit of a root I’d found in the shack and stood up to move out. My leg buckled in pain and I dropped back down. The bullet splintered the tree branch where my head should have been. I wasn’t alone I was being hunted. No shot rang out so he was a sniper and pretty far out with a silencer. I scrambled to some rocks for cover and tried to stay calm. Finally I managed to slip away.

       For the next two weeks we dogged one another. He’d shoot, I’d shoot but the terrain and deteriorating weather pretty much made hitting anything impossible. Thing that scared me was I couldn’t scrub for food and I was pretty sure he was eating. I also had a time line to meet. Tramping around playing hide and seek was killing it. Toward the end of the second week he actually just stumbled across me. We fought and I caught some luck again. He was a big ass Russian bastard. Big like Giddy but broader, and tough and trained in hand to hand but he slipped and fell in the snow and I pounced. I slammed the butt of my rifle into his face over and over and over then blinded by my own facial injury I just ran. Well limped, hobbled whatever. Got the fuck away from him. To this day I don’t know why I didn’t shoot him too. Maybe I figured I’d killed him. Maybe I was just so fucking scared of him. Finally I fell down a slope maybe forty feet just rolling and tumbling. I woke up hours later a bloody mess. I stitched up my face, got a bearing and kept moving toward extraction.

       Next day just after daybreak, there was light snow flurries falling and the air smelled fresh, he hit me. A through and through left inside, thigh, high in the in the meat.”

      “I didn’t know that Salem, don’t remember that wound.”

       “Guess it never came up, Tyse. I knew I had to just end it. I couldn’t run anymore. I laid still playing dead. He was a ways out, it was a beautiful shot but once he moved to confirm his kill he wouldn’t be able to see me. I crawled away. I set that fucking trap just outside a little hole in the base of a tree and crawled inside. I hid the trap under snow and brush and myself too then waited and plugged up my newest injury. I was exhausted, starving, hurt and terrified.

       Finally I heard a twig snap and snow crunching. I knew he’d see my tracks to the tree. I knew he’d wonder why I’d just caved and hunkered down in it to die. He spent two hours searching the area for me probably figuring the tree was a set up. But his problem was the only tracks, the only blood led to that tree. Finally he came over. I could see him through a tiny slit in my cover. He squatted down, moved in duck walking then he leaned down to peer in and snap. I got his right arm in the trap. I launched out of my hole and just stood there looking at him. He was fucked. His face was a bloody mess from the fight and arm was shredded. I fired three shots from my Deagle point blank into his forehead and passed out.

       When I came around I was actually surprised he was still dead. I started to laugh like an imbecile and spin stumbling in a circle. I fell over backwards and flailed my arms and legs making a snow angel. It was madness. Finally I took his rifle. It was beautiful; a Barrett light fifty. I took his knife, eight inch Randall also exquisite. I left him side arm. Don’t know why. I loaded  a round in the chamber and wrapped his cold fingers around it and set it in his lap. I think a part of me still didn’t think he was dead and I wanted him to have a fair chance when he woke up. Who the fuck knows. I was just done in. Then I rolled him into the tree hole and buried him with stones and brush and marked the coordinates. He deserved at least that. To my surprise he had no food. I took his ammo and water and meds, finally I took a bearing and headed out.

       Three days later I hit extraction. The chopper showed and I stumbled toward it. I was freaked out to see Captain Judd Freemont exiting. I asked for Eamon but Monte just smiled looked to see if we were alone and went for his sidearm. It was all in slow motion. I dropped, drew mine and fired. Hit him twice in the right shoulder, then ran for the wood line. Took ‘em three hours, Eamon and the smell of food to talk me in.

        Monte you see was the traitor and he knew I knew. I’d always hated him we had history, bad history form my first days in Sarajevo. Then during my fourth week I was watching a mortar camp and he showed up. Just popped into my scope. He traded a bunch of Nato stamped weapons crates for drugs. I was furious. I tagged him through his left shoulder. I didn’t want to kill him just mark him. He had to know it was me; I was the only one out in that forest who could make that shot. When he came out of the chopper I regretted not telling Eamon sooner but I had no idea who to trust. Still I couldn’t believe he’d try and waste me like that. It had been Monte who set the Russian sniper on me. Monte’s fault I had to kill him, what a waste. I hate him. Now I had to tell Eamon though. Now that Fremont had made his move. He believed me thank fuckin’ god. The chopper crew restrained him and I loaded up. I Killed that man because of fucking Monte. He was a good man, had a picture of his son in his gear. Fuckin’ Monte! I…I…Seven guys, my guys, my guys butchered, after what I’d already done to save them in the beginning. I’d sold my fuckin’ soul to save them on our third op. And my…my sniper, I…”

       Salem crumbled and began to sob. Mimi stood and tried to take  Nala away. This wasn’t something she needed to see. The little girl screamed and plead to stay and fought like a wounded animal.

      “No! No! Let me go! My Uncle Elliot, mine, let me go! He needs me! Grama stop it, no! Daddy!”

       Finally Zoe stepped in and helped her wrestle Nala free. She was clutching Elliot in a death grip round his neck and sobbing uncontrollably with him.

        Then Tyson was at his side, and Giddy and Heckler and the three simply wrapped themselves around the sobbing man and held him for nearly a half an hour. Brett, Frankie and the other guests including Art could only watch in silence. None of them could even begin to imagine such hardship and betrayal. Only Art remained untouched. Even though he’d never in all of his years in law enforcement experienced such hurt and camaraderie he couldn’t bring himself to feel any empathy for Elliot.

       Finally he calmed down and they released him. All had been crying and none were ashamed of it. They’d all been through a lot with Salem and to hear his story broke them as much as it had broken Elliot to tell it. Rios retrieved Salem’s Bourbon and took a long drink, then, Giddy then Heckler. Salem sighed deeply and shook his head.

       “They just…just de-briefed me, handed me my mail, told me to pack my gear and shipped me straight to you guys. Didn’t even see a medic really till I hit Germany. Even then it was in and out. Eamon figured with the shit storm coming over Freemont it’d be better to get me clear a there. Eamon knew top and that top needed a man, told me you were great Tyse, that you’d have my back no matter what imagine my disappointment. But anyway here we all still are.”

       “Yup here we are. And I guess it just goes to show Nala was fucking right. Green is good, especially god damned fuckin’ damn good in vegetables and little skinny ass bitches named Salem. And Fifty here, he’s living fucking proof. To our Fifty!”

       He raised the Bourbon slammed back a mouthful and passed it round.

       Three rounds later Salem settled back into his chair seeming to doze. The conversation fell to nearly whispers and steered well clear of anything to serious. After about an hour the peaceful mood was again ripped apart. Salem lunged up from his chair screaming and stumbling around. Rios moved to him immediately.

      “Don’t take her! Leave my, Ellie be, you can’t have her! Leave my daughter. No, no, no, don’t take her from me! I’m sorry! I’m…”

       “Salem, Ellie it’s Tyse Elliot stop, Salem!”

      He held him in a crushing bear hug from behind and tried to get through to him. Finally Salem went limp and Tyson sat him back down on the edge of a chair. He knelt down and took his sweaty face between his hands.

       “Bad dream, Ellie, it’s over. Come on now, gonna get you off to bed. You’ve had enough for today.”

       They went into the house and the group was left to decipher the odd nightmare.

       “Elliot has a kid?”

       “No Brett that’s just it he don’t. What the hell Giddy, what the fuck was that all about. He’s never had that nightmare before.”

       “Hell if know but it’s late and maybe we should all head in. The beach tomorrow and a volleyball game to win. Let’s go.”

       Zoe though held back.

       “Zoe?”

       “I’ll be right there, Heck just going to douse the fire and snuff the lanterns, get the sleeping bags set ok.”

       “Ok, but Tyse usually…”

       “He has his hands full with Elliot, Heck. I have it this time.”

       She went around snuffing the lanterns and then the fire pit while trying to erase Salem’s screams from her mind. The dream secured for her a belief that she’d long held about the young man. He had a secret, a very big secret and it would tear him up if he didn’t talk about it. She’d lost a child very young and for years she’d always felt an odd affinity to Salem that she couldn’t quite explain. The way played with the kids, the glimpses of sadness she often caught him in, it all reminded her of herself during the first years after her daughter had died. She snuffed the final lantern and sighed.

       “Well Elliot Salem, they say ‘it takes one to know one’ and Giddy has also sworn for years there’s a piece of your puzzle missing and now I think, as crazy at it’s gonna sound I might have figured it out.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

           


	5. The Shadow Operative

**_ From A Child’s Plate _ **

**_ Chapter Five _ **

**_ The Shadow Operative _ **

_Nala’s early morning activities test out her soldiering skills; betraying a little of just what goes on when Uncle Elliot is left alone to babysit his favorite little mercenary._

 

 

 

Nala rolled over and slapped off her alarm clock.

“0500 already?”

 The young girl hated the bright pink digital clock shaped like a flower and its glowing green digits. With a sigh she slipped from her twin sized canopy bed, padded to a small light on her desk and clicked it on careful to move the switch silently. The room came to life in an eerie wash of red light. Then looking at the glowing face of the military grade watch strapped round her left wrist she snorted.

“0447, stupid digital pink girly clock you’re three and a half minutes fast again.”

Once in her bathroom, across the room, she washed her face, brushed her teeth while recalling the miserable end to the BBQ the night before. She needed to get to Elliot and check on him but reminded herself to stay calm and stick to the plan she'd laid out the night before after the adults thought she'd fallen asleep. Panicking would only lead to failure. She frowned and stared at her hair. The thick near black mass was the only issue that came between the precocious child and Elliot and ironically the only issue her mother and the much maligned man agreed upon. Elliot loved it. He often brushed it for her when Samantha was away and categorically, with Samantha's support despite the fact that mother or not she refused to manage it, forbade the girl to cut it. Nala and her father both hated the unruly mop and if she had her way she'd be just as bald as Tyson was and very pleased with the look.

“Someday, someday soon you’re getting chopped off.”

She flipped the mass up and held it out to the sides of her head; stuck out her tongue, rolled her eyes, wrinkled up her pert nose and then dropped the locks back onto her narrow shoulders. Sighing she grabbed her brush and after a half- hearted attempt to pull it through the dark strands she tugged an elastic band onto it and flicked the pony tail.

“Done enough.”

Nala checked her watch. 0515, despite the flower clocks error she was right on schedule. Morning hygiene completed she changed from her Barbie pajamas into a pair of black military style cargo pants and a black long sleeved tee shirt. Then she slipped on black socks, laced up her boots, grabbed her faded jungle patterned patrol cap and scrutinized the outfit in her bathroom dressing mirror. Finally after tucking in a wayward bootlace she nodded in approval.

Cap in hand she crossed to her bed and opened up the nightstand drawer. After fishing around far in the back she retrieved a key, slipped it into the map pocket inside of the hat and wedged the treasured cap on top of her head backwards, riding just above the ponytail, squishing it around a bit to settle it. Then she moved to her dresser knelt down, opened the right side bottom drawer and reaching up onto the bottom of the drawer above it removed a thin, flat black canvas case secured there with Velcro. She stowed it in her left side cargo pocket  and  quickly completed her morning routine by making up her bed with a much hated pink floral comforter and matching frilly pillows; topping the bright affair off with a quartet of frightfully angry stuffed dragons, arranged back to back, watching the four corners of the bedroom. Content, she checked the time again.

“0528 guys.” She informed the dragons in a whisper, “Time to move out. Keep a close watch and open comms. And-A-Half out.”

Nala doused the lights, moved to the bedroom door and squatted down just below the door knob with her left shoulder against the floral print wall. She placed her right hand on the knob and her left ear against the door and waited patiently while listening. A quick glance at her watch and she nodded to herself.

“0530…executing, Dragon One.”

Very slowly she turned the knob and peered out into the hallway, first left and then right. It was dark and empty. She rolled out pulling the door closed behind her and began stealthily slipping, at a painfully slow pace, to the right along the hallway wall staying very, very low. Once she reached the main living area she froze and squatted down.

“Shit.”

“Dragon one, I have contacts at two-o-clock, obtaining positive I.D.”

The smell off coffee wafted from the kitchen. Someone was already awake. Who could it be? The small girl slipped around the corner, low crawled into the family room and hunkered down behind Rios’ big chestnut colored recliner. Then she inched across the room using the sofa and coffee table for added cover trying to get a line of sight into the kitchen. It was no good. Without getting closer she couldn’t I.D. the tango. She checked her watch and cursed beneath her breath. Time was ticking away. She was about to risk slinking down the three steps into the sunken area of the room and creeping closer when the smell of hot cinnamon buns assailed her nose. Relieved, she smiled.

“Grama Mimi. A friendly. We caught a break.”

She took a deep breath and reminded herself to be careful. Caught was caught, be it by a friendly or not.

“Dragon One, contact neutralized.”

Turning she retraced her path and halted beside the small magazine table that sat beside Rios’ chair. After checking her back trail she began to carefully pull the table across the gray carpet toward the double doors leading into Tyson’s office staying as low as she could. She centered it in front of the left door and climbed on top. Again she squatted down, her back to the door and observed her surroundings.

The big room was quite dark. The only viable light shone from the outside porch lamp into the entry foyer but failed to make it into the large sunken family room. Nala doubted she’d be able to stay off the security cameras but part of her plan was to try.

“0538… Dragon One. And-A-Half in place and gearing up.”

Nala squirmed slightly and retrieved the black case. She pulled the zipper open and set it on the table between her booted feet. Once open she took out a small Mag Lite and clenched it between her teeth. She clicked it on and a narrow beam of red light illuminated her little bag. Next she fetched a lanyard. She clipped it to the case and draped it around her tiny neck. Another time check showed she needed to wait. Finally as the hands clicked in for 0540 she stood, slowly turned and faced the door. Slow was good. Elliot taught her that if she dressed in black and if she moved slowly enough; the cameras just might not pick her up. She couldn’t be certain Rios was still asleep, leaving a small chance that her father just might be awake and monitoring the security system from his computer in his bedroom. She pushed aside her concerns and focused.

Salem had walked her through this procedure more times than she could count but she knew that every detail needed to be paid attention to. You never took anything for granted. She took a small compass free from its Velcro tab in the case pulling gently to mute the tearing sound. Then she slipped it up along the left side of the door frame from about mid-way high and then standing on her toes along the top. Half way across the arrow pegged north in the Mag Lite’s beam she froze.

“Gotcha.” She muttered around the little light’s barrel.

She continued to move the compass to her right until the needle bobbed away from north, then back again, and continuing right watched the needle twitch once more. With the three areas noted in her mind’s eye she stuck the compass back in its spot and removed a five-eighths of an inch wide, three and a half inch long, eighth of an inch thick strip of hard plastic. She studied the three equally spaced, powerful, extra thin magnets fastened flush within it and grinned.

“Blocking strip, so simple.” She hissed biting down on the little light.

Then it was back into the case and out came some very tacky putty and a stiff file. Because the sensors sat recessed within the upper door frame and the top of the door itself she’d need the putty to hold the blocking strip in place on the frame over the hidden alarm switch. She put a small pin head sized dollop on each end of the magnetic strip and very carefully, aligning it where her compass had twitched, slipped it between the door frame and the door’s top. Then using the file, pressed it into place and held it snug. She tipped her left wrist inward and watched the second hand of the big watch tick by. Fifteen seconds passed and she retracted the file, replaced it in the case and removed a small black box the size of a playing card. She turned it on and held it up near her handiwork. Two red lights appeared proving that she’d successfully fooled the magnetic sensors.

“0545… Dragon one. Alarm one neutralized.”

She shut down the device, returned it to the case and climbed slowly from the table. Very carefully she returned it to the exact spot she’d taken it from. Then using the Mag Lite made certain the legs ended up right back in the shallow indentions in the carpet. Satisfied Nala went back to the door smoothing out the table’s drag marks as she went.

Back at the objective she knelt down, retrieved her compass and slipped it along the remaining door frame as high as she could reach and then worked the gap between the two heavy oak doors. Midway between the floor and the doorknobs the needle flicked to north. Nala repeated the blocking procedure and then sliding to the left she hunkered down against the wall and re-packed her kit.

“0554… Dragon one. Alarms are clear; preparing to breach on my mark.”

Nala took off her cap, took out the key and turned it silently in first the knob and then the dead bolt before replacing it in her cap. Then she watched her watch’s hands ticking and at 0459 and a half she stood, turned the knob and slipped silently into the dimly lit room closing and locking the door behind her self. She squatted down, froze against the defeated partition and let her eyes adjust to light.

“0600… breach complete, Dragon One. And-A-Half out.” Then grinning wickedly. “Purrr-fect.” She whispered stretching the word out, mimicking Salem’s syrupy tone when he used that particular trademark saying. “Uncle Elliot you’re gonna be so damned proud of me.”

 

 

 


	6. Presenting Dragon One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rios begins to wonder if Salem and Nala are allied to drive him crazy.

 

**_ From A Child’s Plate _ **

**_ Chapter Six _ **

**_ Presenting Dragon One _ **

 

 

                                                                                                                                                   

      

 

       Once Nala was certain that her father was unaware of her location she stood and crossed the dark room to Rios' large U shaped desk. She scanned the bank of computer monitors and located the ones with the footage for the hallway and family room areas. The screens were dark. She reached for the mouse but then concerned that she would mess the system up withdrew her small hand. She would need Elliot's help to replay the security footage and to get that she needed to wake him up and get him moving.

       "0620 moving to contact."

       She crossed to the big leather couch and looked down at her sleeping uncle. She loved to watch Salem sleep. He did all manner of strange things. He talked and laughed. He twitched and even sang sometimes. The scary part was when he had a nightmare. Nala hated those and Rios had instructed the young girl what to do in the event Elliot suffered one and the pair was alone. She reached out, brushed his hair back from his cheek and studied him in the dim light. He lay on his left side, knees tucked up a little with his left arm under his pillow and the right bent with his clenched fist tucked under his stubble shaded chin. She leaned over him and placed her watch next to his were it peeked out from beneath the pillow.

       "0623 and perfectly in sync."

      He'd kicked off his covers and was shirtless. Nala reached out once again and traced the very fine scar beneath his right eye. It was the scar, she now knew, from Salem's fight with his Russian sniper.

       "Wow."

      Then she ran her finger gently across the scar on his right wrist. It was Vasily Tyannikov's scar from when the big man had broken Elliot's arm back in Africa. Finally she traced the deep green flame enshrouded dragon up Salem's arm until she reached the head. Nala stroked the head reverently and smiled before whispering,

       "0628 contact with Dragon One. Activating on my mark."

       At 0629 Salem's eyes shot open unexpectedly and Nala flinched. He didn't move a muscle only his eyes moved scanning right and left searching the dim space.

      "Nala."

        "Uncle Elliot."

        "Where's your old man?"

      "Sleeping."

       "How'd you get in?"

       "The way we practiced."

      He studied the small girl. Sure enough she wore her black mission gear. Sure enough they were alone. Before he could question her further she spoke in a whisper.

        "0630 Dragon One activated. Time to get up sleepy head. Look your eyes are all puffy. I'll get a damp cloth while you get dressed."

       Salem sat up and stretched trying to wrap his head around what just transpired. The little girl stepped away and went into the bathroom and Elliot headed for his closet. The events of the night before slowly trickled back into his memory and he groaned. He'd fallen apart. He'd have rather died first then have come unglued in front of that particular group of people. Before he could berate himself for his weakness the second major event of the night screamed at him. Art had unsealed his juvenile records. He tossed the shirt he'd chosen back on the shelf, chose a beaten up tee shirt instead, grabbed socks and his running shoes. He needed some space before seeing any of the group. He needed space and to burn off the anger seething in his chest. A good long run would be a start.

      Back in the office Nala held out the cool cloth for him. He took it, smiled and sat down on the bed to pull on his shoes and socks. Then he daubed the cloth on his eyes while she waited.

       "Bathroom stuff kiddo, be out in a mike."

       "Roger that."

       In the bathroom he pissed and studied himself in the mirror. Nala was right he was a mess. Between drinking himself senseless Friday night and the emotional toll of Saturday Elliot wasn't sure he'd be able to swing the long day he had ahead. He brushed his teeth, soaked his head under the tub faucet, dried himself off and returned to the office.

        Nala was now sitting in Rios' big leather 'command center' chair studying the screens. He hoisted her up, slipped into the seat and put her on his lap.

       "Need to see if I was slow enough." She said pointing. "Eleven is the hallway, and fifteen A is the family room area. We need to hurry though no telling when Dad'll be up."

      "Time stamp?"

       "0530 to 0600."

       Salem manipulated the monitors to the desired time and the pair studied the screens, fast forwarding to speed the process along. From what Salem could see she'd beaten the cameras. He reset the monitors, lifted her up, spun around and they high fived as he set her down.

      "That's my little mercenary. Well done And-A-Half!"

       "Roger that Dragon One. Now we better get moving. Still need to retrieve my blocking strips."

       The pair exited the office, retrieved Nala's gear and snuck along the walls until they reached the hallway.

      "Go put that kit and key away, can't risk getting caught with it and meet me in the kitchen."

       "Grama Mimi's up and making Cinnamon rolls."

      "Yea I can smell 'em but we need man food; so how's about we do the Super Soldier Salem Special?"

       "The Quad S? Hell yea! Back in three Mikes."

       Across the sprawling ranch style home Tyson awoke with the trailing memory of a dream flickering in his mind. Groaning he dislodged himself from Samantha and slipped from the bed. He sat for a moment on the edge holding his face in his hands, trying to make sense of the fleeting dream memory.Elliot was in it. He was laughing and goofing off, as he was so prone to doing. Then a thick, dark swirling cloud engulfed him and his laughter turned to frenetic screaming. Rios struggled in the thick haze to find the desperate man but every time he thought that he'd located him the screaming shifted and came from another location. Then from out of nowhere Nala appeared. Rios watched as the small girl took in a long breath and blew out forcefully. The Fog dissipated revealing Elliot. Upon seeing her he stopped screaming, smiled again and held out her hair brush. Nala's clearing of the fog apparently destroyed whatever horror Salem was afraid of.

       "Damn it Salem!" Rios hissed pushing off the bed.

       He hit the bathroom, pissed, washed, washed his face, dressed and headed for the kitchen. He was surprised to find Nala and his mother already there. Nala slid from her stool at the breakfast bar and swarmed into his thick arms.

       "Daddy!"

       "Morning Peach, Mom."

        He squeezed her tight kissed the top of her head.

       "Uncle Elliot's running. I already got him up and moving. Figured he'd need that; you know how you always say after a bad night he needs to get moving. So I did it. Said I couldn't go though, my legs are too short."

      "That's true enough."

       "Ewe you need to shave." She ordered scrubbing her palms up and down his cheeks. "Only Uncle Elliot's allowed to have stubblies."

       "M-hmm I'll take that into consideration."

        "You do that mister."

        Rios sat her back on the stool and took a much needed cup of black coffee from his mother.

      "You said you got your uncle up and moving. You woke him up?"

       "Yup, here's another roll, Grama."

       The big man squinted at the child confused. She woke him up. She got him moving. He never heard the office door alarm sound, and he was damn sure he didn't sleep through it. How had she gotten into his locked and alarmed office?

       "Why are you in your mission gear?"

       Nala looked down at her clothes and shrugged.

       "Just felt like wearing them. It'll piss off Grampa Art for sure, the bastard."

        "Nala!"

       "But Grama he's so mean and…"

       "Nala your grandmother's right, watch your language. How long's Salem been gone?"

       "Oh probably about… oh I'd say…"

        "Left at 0723 it's 0830 that's one hour and seven mikes Dad." Nala interrupted her grandmother.

      The older woman shook her head at the child and smiled.

       "Tyson you definitely have your hands full with that one."

        "Two Grama; he has Uncle Elliot too."

      Rios studied the child over his coffee cup as she resettled the huge military grade watch back on her tiny wrist. He let his curiosity as to how she'd gotten in the office slip aside and instead recalled when Elliot had presented her with the treasured gift.

**_ Christmas, Rios Residence Two Years Earlier _ **

       Just as he'd done every year for seven years Salem arrived Rios' house with a truck load of presents. He timed it so that he'd arrive just after the family had time enough for themselves but not so late that the gift opening was entirely completed. He sat and watched Nala open his gifts and the ones remaining from her family, gave the adults theirs and opened his all the while trying to be present but not in the way. Elliot waited all year for these moments and relished in watching Nala and Tyson enjoy whatever surprises he'd found for them. After they'd opened all of the gifts Salem produced a small, square box. Compared to the rest of his gifts, which he insisted upon paying the various charities around town to wrap, this box was a mess, obviously wrapped by him. The bright red glossy paper was crinkled and the shiny silver bow while bow like was a twisted mess. All things being equal the little gift had as much tape on it as it did paper. He held it out toward Nala and squealing with glee she snatched it from his outstretched hand.

       "Nala have some manners girl, don't grab!" Rios' father scolded.

        "Grampa small's the best! What is it? What is it? What is it?"

      "Open it, And-A-Half."

        Nala studied the frazzled box, turning it and shaking it gently.

       "It's beautiful Uncle Elliot. The bow is so shiny."

      Finally she carefully slipped the silver bow and ribbon off of the box and set it aside. Then she slowly opened the red paper taking care not to tear it. She folded it and set it beside the bow and opened the box inside was a second box.

      "Oh no, oh no, oh no!"

       In a flash she was in Elliot's lap the gift clenched in her right fist and her little arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

        "Nala what is it? Show us, Sweetie." Tyson's mother prodded.

       "Can I wear it today? Will it fit? Is it just like yours? Will you put it on? Oh please, please, pretty please!"

      "Yea I'm pretty sure, and yea I'll put it on you, and except for the custom camo, of course we'll match."

        "Yes!"

        "Salem," Rios growled, "we talked about this! Tell me you didn't, just tell me you…"

       Before he could finish Nala flipped open the box and held it up for the group to see.

       "Ta-da my mission watch! An MTM Camouflaged Warrior One!"

       Nala spun back around to Salem and held out her left arm. He took off the small pink Barbie watch that had been a gift from Samantha's mother and set it aside on the end table. Then he took the new time piece from its case and wrapped it round her wrist. He slipped the latch through the catch, folded it up and snapped it closed.

      "Perfect." The pair purred in unison.

        Then Nala snapped, "Synchronize watches."

       "I have, on my mark… 0912."

      "I have…0912! We're already in sync. How cool is that. I love you Uncle Elliot. When's our first real mission? What's it gonna be? I can't wait. Is Daddy in sync. Dad synchronize!"

      "Yes Nala I have 0913.5. We are all in sync. Right Salem. In sync. In sync means you listening to me when we discuss…"

       "I'm gonna go in my closet and look at it in the dark, Uncle E. Wanna come? Daddy can't get us in there."

      "Roger that."

       They took off down the hallway leaving the rest of the group wondering what just happened. Samantha's father verbalized their confusion.

      "What the hell just happened here? We just gave her a watch. A Barbie watch and it didn't come cheap; it's a classic collectable watch."

       Rios pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

       "That Art is an MTM Camouflaged Warrior One watch. No two of them are camouflaged exactly alike. It sports Swiss Ronda Quartz movement. The dial is NASA Type Carbon Fiber. The index and hands are designed for easy reading underwater and are fitted with Tritium Gas Tubes that will Glow without any external light source or twenty-five years. It's water resistant to 200 Meters. For you that's 660 Feet . The case and band are solid 316L Stainless Steel with MTM's unique Camouflage Finish over black durable ION/PVD plating. The glass is scratch resistant anti-reflective Sapphire Crystal. The crown is locking, screw down. The case size, which is obviously too large for a small girl, is 45mm by 14.5mm thick. It weighs in at eight ounces and we won't need to get her a battery until she turns eighteen because the little beauty has a ten year Lithium battery. And if all that is not enough for your resident seven year old watch lover it comes with its own watertight tactical box. All that for a paltry price tag of $1200.00. That is what just happened and what is going to happen next is that I am going to drag his skinny ass out of that fucking closet and beat it clear back to the god damned North Pole. So if you will all just excuse me for a moment. Salem!"

**_ The Present _ **

       Rios snapped back to the present as Nala handed another roll to her grandmother.

       "Thanks Nala that was very precise time keeping."

        "Precise is good, Daddy."

      "Did you have breakfast?"

       "Yup."

       Rios looked at his mother who simply shook her head and raised her arms up in defeat.

       "They insisted."

       Frowning, Tyson focused back on Nala.

      "What dad? We had the Quad S. The Super Soldier Salem Special."

      "The Super what?"

       "Well it was a secret but I guess I can share it now since Grama Mimi knows. Oh hell and heathens what a mess."

       "Oh hell and what? Never mind. This Super breakfast what'd he make you eat?"

       "Boudin Noir mashed into scrambled eggs, with wiggly bacon on the side and all covered in brown mustard and butter gravy sauce, with toast dipped in the bacon grease. It's good energy food."

       Rios blanched and shook his head.

       "Your uncle ate that and went running?"

       "Yup."

      The big man shook off the shudder he felt. How on earth could Elliot eat that kind of slop and then run. It was times like these this, despite years of battling to get Salem to eat, that made Rios actually wish the man chose to go hungry.

       "Tyson; Zoe and Heather packed the coolers last night; all they need is the ice. They're out in the garage."

       "That's good. So are we on schedule Nala?"

        "Roger that."

      "Good let's load ice and get the stuff into the truck."

       Nala hopped from her stool and darted toward the garage. Rios refilled his coffee, kissed his mother on the cheek and followed the sprite, once again wondering exactly how she'd gotten into his office.

       Out in the garage they found the four coolers lined up in front of the ice machine. One was filled with drinks for the kids, one with beer and wine coolers for the adults and one with snacks. The forth was empty awaiting the meat and cooking items. While Rios loaded the pre-made hamburgers, shish kebabs and hot dogs, Nala worked at filling the others with ice. Finally the task was complete. Rios took two coolers and Nala one and the pair rolled them down the driveway to Tyson's truck. Once there he dropped the tailgate and hoisted Nala up into the bed. Then he loaded the three coolers for the little girl to drag to the rear while he returned for the remaining cooler.

        After loading the final cooler he turned and saw Salem rounding the corner onto his street. About four hundred and fifty yards out the man kicked into a full sprint. Rios and Nala watched him closely.

      "No limp, Daddy."

       "Not that I can see."

       "His hip must be better."

       "I hope so. He still shouldn't overdue it. We have to deploy in a week and a half."

        "It's Uncle Elliot, you know how hard headed he is."

      "I'll talk to him."

       "Let me do it Dad. You're too demanding. He doesn't handle that very well."

       "How old are you?"

      "Just turned nine, Dad come keep track!"

       "You seem older."

      "Just mature. Uncle E. say's it's a good thing being mature."

       "Yea, well maybe you can get some of that maturity to rub off on him."

       "No! Then he'd be no fun."

       Then Elliot was there grinning and panting.

       "Looking good Fifty! No limp."

       "Thanks kiddo. Got any drinks up there."

       "Yup, not too cold yet though. Beer or…"

      "Gatorade, Nala, he wants a Gatorade. A purple Gatorade."

        "I do?"

        "You do."

       "You heard to man and he is the boss."

       Nala shrugged and moved to the coolers and began digging for the requested drink.

      "How far'd you go?"

       Elliot spat and cleared his throat.

        "What…like eight miles. The big loop twice and the small loop a time and a half. Thanks Nala."

       He took the purple drink from her, chugged about half of it and sat down next to her on the tailgate. Rios stepped away and fished around inside of the truck finally dragging out a grungy towel. He smelled it wrinkled up his nose in distaste and returned to Nala and Salem.

        "Here, smells like you, must be yours." He said scrubbing the towel around Salem's sweat soaked hair playfully and sitting down beside him their shoulders touching.

      Salem grabbed the towel and oblivious to any odors wiped his face off then his chest and the back of his neck.

      "Fuck, I wore myself out, Tyse."

        "A little slow actually, soldier."

       "What!"

      "Eight miles, you've been gone for one hour and thirty-three and a half minutes." She declared tapping the short nail of her right index finger on the Warrior One's Sapphire glass.

       "I told you not to get her that damned watch, Kermit."

      "I am still rehabbing! Got another drink up there Sergeant Hard Ass?"

       "Yep, but I'm just sayin'"

       "Just dig me out another drink. Jesus Christ and fuck me twice, where'd you find that kid, Tyse? You need to crack down on her and get her to mellow out. Acts three times her age."

      "I heard that!"

       Salem stood up and stretched. Then he bent over and touched his toes before pulling upwards on each of his feet tucking his calves against his thighs. Then he looked Tyson in the eyes suddenly serious.

       "What about, Art. Did some thinking while I was running."

       Rios looked over his shoulder at Nala then stood and faced Elliot. He looked down, locked eyes with the smaller man and sighed. Nala being well versed in the men's body language sat down on the cooler and waited. She knew from the look on her father's face that they needed a moment.

        "I'll take care of it. It's mine to do, Ellie. Just trust me ok."

       Salem flopped the towel over his right shoulder and nodded. He hated to admit it but Rios was right. If left to his own he'd lose his temper and just prove that Art was correct when he'd said that they should not have given him a second chance.

      "Like to fight my own battles, Tyse."

       "I know, and you know that I know and that I know that you're capable of handling yourself. But I also know you Ellie and you can't risk blowing a fuse with him; so just let me and Walter, my lawyer, handle it. Promise me."

      Elliot nodded and Rios pulled him into a quick embrace.

       "Alright lovey dovey time is over. Break it up. Here you go Uncle Elliot, and gentlemen by my watch we need to continue loading."

       "Ok, ok." Rios conceded.

       "Forget the drink. Tank Commander, And-A-Half mount up!"

       "Roger that, Fifty!"

      Nala tossed the drink back into the cooler, bounded up onto Tyson's huge shoulders, wrapped her fingers in Salem's sweat soaked hair and pointed toward the house.

      "Papa Tank One, move out half speed, at eleven o-clock on my mark. 3-2-1, engage!"

       The trio marched down the sidewalk and entered through the front door. As they approached the landing for the sunken family room Nala called a halt. Both men stopped and stood perfectly still.

        "Tango two o-clock."

     Art stood across the room in front of Tyson's sixty inch television watching the morning news unaware of their presence.

      "Roger that Tank Commander, advise." Salem whispered back.

       "Acquire suitable ammo."

        Salem looked around the foyer, retrieved a large bright red apple from the fruit bowl on a nearby table and returned to Nala and Tyson.

      "Ammo acquired."

       "Roger that. On my mark send it."

      "Roger that. A five count?"

       "Roger. 5-4-3-…"

       "Salem if you take out my television…"

       "Stand by, Fifty!"

       "Copy that. Advise."

        "We'll recon and find a way to avoid the friendly."

     "Roger that. I was hungry anyway."

      He reached over, polished the apple on Rios' shirt sleeve and took a big bite.

       "Papa Tank One ahead half speed."

       They arrived in the kitchen and Rios slid Nala off of his shoulders and onto the kitchen island counter. As Elliot passed her he handed off the half eaten apple and to Rios and his mother's dismay Nala greedily bit into the untouched side.

      "So much for bug breath."

       "Watch it Tubby." Salem sniped opening the refrigerator. "I heard that."

       "Tubby? How many times do I have to tell you do not call me…oh no you don't!"

       "What? It's a beer. A lone beer. I ran eight miles, I deserve…"

       "Not at this hour. Not in my house. Back. Put-it-back-now."

       "Fine."

       Salem replaced the beer and took out a new half-gallon jug of orange juice. He held it up for Tyson's approval, opened it and before either Mimi or the big man could stop him he chugged straight from the bottle.

       "Ugg pulp. I hate the pulp kind. After all these years you'd think you'd have figured that out by now, Rios. Damn it, some kind a friend you are."

      He took another long swig and held the jug out to Nala who dutifully copied his actions and handed it back.

      "Yuck, yea the pulp’s gross Dad, geeze."

       "God damn it, Salem!"

       "Tyson your language."

       "Don't Mom just don't. And you, you freaking lunatic I'm gonna…"

       "Good morning all."

      The room went quiet as Samantha waltzed in.

       "Morning Mom." Nala mumbled passed a mouthful of apple.

       "You are not wearing that to the beach missy. And you, tell me you are not drinking out of my jug of orange juice."

      Salem held the jug at arm's length and studied it. He sighed belatedly and shook his head.

      "Ok, nope. I'm not drinking out of your jug of juice, Nala is. She started it and was sharing."

      He handed the jug to Nala who took a long swig before handing back.

      "Sharing's good, Mom. They teach that in church. But this pulpy kind, it really sucks."

      "Nala!"

      "And I know black's not beach wear. Me and Uncle E. still need to change. We've been hard at work all morning while you were wasting your life away sleeping."

       Rios was on the verge of panic. Firefights, missed extractions, bad intell getting wounded all of that was nothing compared to playing referee between his wife and Elliot. Throw Nala into fray and the big mercenary would just as soon be taken captive by just about any nation well versed in the finest methods of torture.

       "Morning Sam and just, just let them be ok. Just let it all go and try and have a nice day."

       He leaned in to give her kiss in hopes of placating her and as they met she looked over his shoulder at a leering Salem. Then instead of the quick chaste peck Rios had intended she dragged him into a deep, long kiss.

       "Eeeew, old people get a room!" Nala squealed.

       Salem knew the kiss was intended to aggravate him so he immediately began whispering a devious plan in Nala's ear.

      "Operation dispose apple core. Can you hit the garbage can near your mom?"

      "Roger that."

      "Three count. Execute on my mark."

       They watched as Rios broke from the kiss scowling. He knew too that the kiss was intended to tease Elliot. He took a slight step back leaving Samantha alone and looked toward Salem to judge his mood.

       "3-2-1 send it."

       "Frag out!"

       Nala threw the apple. It buzzed past Samantha's head by an inch, ricocheted off the microwave door with a splat and dropped into the waste basket below.

       "Yes! That's my girl the! Prepare to mount up for exfil!"

        "Roger that!"

      Salem closed the juice, tossed the near empty jug at the garbage can behind the apple, dashed forward, scooped and slung Nala onto his back and fled the kitchen.

       "God damn it Salem! Nala! Mom don't! Just don't say a word. Both of you just shut up. I do not need to hear whatever it is either of you think you need to say. So just do-not-speak. Salem! I'm coming for your skinny fucking ass Elliot, just wait. Just you fucking wait!"

 

                                    


	7. Finger Food

**__ **

_ Chapter Seven _

_ Finger Food _

 

 

 

Two hours later the trucks were loaded, and the group was walking to the vehicles to depart for the beach. Nala had insisted upon riding with Salem, and then insisted that they be the rear guard vehicle. Everything had finally seemed to fall into place when Tyson’s cell phone rang. Salem and Nala both froze. The ringtone, ‘Hail to the Chief’, was one they were well familiar with. It belonged to Alice Murray, and several people familiar with the tone’s owner found the choice to be somewhat sanctimonious.

“Rios.” The big man responded tersely.

“What’s your status?”

“My place, loading to go to the beach why?”

“I need you to be at 110 South Pointe Dr. ASAP. Full team, Miami Dade needs an assist. I know this is out of the norm, but some pal of Dalton’s is pulling in a favor. There’s going to be media, lots of media, so Balaclavas are mandatory all around. I don’t want the local law to know who’s stealing milk from their little bowl beyond that we’re SSC. You’ll need full field coms, Salem for a long shot, and be prepared to settle in. The locals have control, and their fighting with the Feds so god only knows what, or how long it will take for them to get ballsy enough to green light it. How’s Salem? This is his area of expertise, and it’s a real beaut.”

Rios looked over at the younger man, and sighed. “He’ll be good.”

“He better be. Dalton’s using this horse shit, dog and pony show to impress the powers above. What’s your ETA, and can you rustle up the guys?”

“Thirty no make it forty-five mikes. We will need to hit HQ to fully TAC up, especially me and Elliot, but I don’t see why we can’t be on site by 1000 hour, and I have Heck, Giddy, and Secour. You find Pedro. Out.”

The rest of the team having heard the ring tone, and the seriousness of Rios’ voice had circled up around him near Salem’s truck. Nala sat in the passenger seat sideways with her feet on the door sill, and Elliot, leaning on the driver’s side bed rail of his Ford, looked across the truck at Rios. Just as Rios was going to start giving orders Art’s cell phone rang. The detective answered it and looked over toward the SSC crew with nothing short of complete confusion on his face. The confusion rapidly shifted to disdain and Rios did not miss the older man’s glare. Art had been in law enforcement long enough to be able to put two and two together and what it was currently adding up to now was that he was being called in for an emergency and that operatives from SSC were assisting and having seen Rios' reaction to his phone call Art surmised that for the next long hours he’d be forced to work with those civilian operatives. More problematic was his deduction that Rios’ team was the SSC assist. He was not pleased and hung up cutting the communication short.

Rios having surmised that Dade had activated Art’s unit sighed and immediately began planning how he'd keep Salem from killing the hateful detective. He gave the team their orders and after saying good-by to their families the men loaded into Rios’ truck. Although they told them they would be in country they could say no more than that and the moment still held the same amount of tension as if they were going overseas. Nala seemed particularly clingy to Salem which worried Rios; he watched her waving in the rear view mirror and hoped that they’d be able to keep whatever transpired from reaching her ears. Salem too seemed uncharacteristically edgy. Rios studied him as he drove, thought about his words carefully and then spoke.

“Hey.” He opened with squeezing Elliot’s left shoulder.

“Hunh?”

“You ok with this? I know you’re beat.”

“Sure.”

Rios frowned and locked eyes with Giddy in the mirror. Giddy shook his head slightly, shrugged then continued giving instructions to Elrod Fitzclover their tactical driver. Heckler and Secour were in contact with Pedro and he in turn was already at SSC HQ loading their rig.

“Always dreaded this day.” Salem finally muttered morosely.

“Which day?”

“The day this bullshit job of ours finally really hits home for my little And-A-Half.”

Rio sighed and pressed firmly down on Elliot’s left thigh before leaving his big right hand heavily upon it. The younger man was bouncing his leg restlessly up and down on his toes. It was, Rios knew, restlessness and not nerves; Salem might get antsy but not scared.

“I think what we do is pretty clear to her, Elliot. She’s too damned smart for her own good.”

Before Salem could respond Giddy called for Tyson’s attention. “Pedy wants to know if you want a second Barrett. He said Fifty’s is getting old and Hiram, in the armory, has the new one ready for activation. Apparently Dalton’s running round in a panic blathering about redundancy and…”

“Fuck Hiram!” Elliot screeched, “Gimme the god damned phone.”

“Yea, send it Giddy.”

“I won’t use it.” Salem pouted crossing his arms over his chest.

“Salem just chill man, ok, just take a breath and…”

“This ain’t the same!” The young man squealed incensed that the gravity of their situation seemed lost to his team mates. “This shit’s not the same as us killing foreign assholes in some faraway place. This is _our_ backyard and if you stupid fucks don’t think it’s gonna hit harder at home, ‘You are,’ in the words of fucking Phillip Clyde, ‘all Morons.’ ”

“Salem,” Giddy began softly, “It’s not like it’ll be on TV. Rios said Murray said we’ll be discreet. If this bad guy needs to be taken out for the safety of innocents it’s all the same, Fifty. It’s the same. The job location’s a non-issue. Besides Elliot, Sam’ll keep Nala away from the boob-tube and computer…”

“Yea Giddy, like you know so fuckin’ much! You ever killed on home soil? I have. So fuck you. It ain’t the same and I for one do not want Nala to look at me like I am some kind of monster. Salem’s the young one; Salem’s a child, Salem’s green; fuck all a you fucks. I killed my first man when I was barely seven so do not try and tell me what it feels like to kill at home! You can’t fly a thousand miles and wash that shit off!”

Salem’s confession slammed through the crowded truck like a bolt of lightning. Barely seven, Rios snatched a quick glance at Elliot who’d rolled the window down and was leaning out of it slightly as if to get fresh air. This was a new event in the younger man’s sorted history. Rios was aware, in very good detail, thanks to a bottle of McClelland’s Speyside, Single Malt Scotch whiskey, of the killing that got Salem sent to prison; but this one was a new crime. Crime he thought then reconsidered, crime seemed heavy handed; maybe it hadn’t been a crime at all, maybe he’d acted out of self-preservation. Before he could respond Heckler spoke up.

“Seven, wow Fifty your resume just keeps getting longer and more bizarre by the day. Seven? Knife or gun? Shit man no, never mind, I don’t even want to think about it.”

Two miles later Salem rolled the window up, leaned back into the dark leather seat and began to speak very quietly.

“Shot gun from six feet. Head shot. Name was Desmond [Dufrene;](http://surnames.behindthename.com/submit/name/dufrene)broke in to rip us off for a shipment of Meth at about 1700. Old man caught him, held him with a S & W .44 magnum, long barrel, big fuckin’ gun. Told me grab the 12 gauge, a sawed off Mossberg with a tactical stock. I did. We marched him out to the edge of the swamp behind our house. About a four klick hike. All the way he whined, sobbed and begged, all the way my old man swore if I ever whined, sobbed and begged like that he’d feed me alive to Uncle Jasper. I…”

“Uncle Jasper?” Giddy asked.

“Old trapper lived out in the swamp. Part Cherokee Indian, part Haitian, part Russian, part, maybe mostly, animal. Smelled like death. Whenever I smell death I smell Uncle Jasper. He was fat and ugly, real brown but not black kinda clay colored; had a mouth full a pointy green slimy teeth, blue eyes and hair down to his ass all matted and crawling with bugs. When I was five I watched him eat a man’s finger right off of his hand for trespassing and raiding his Nutria traps. Gnawed right through the bone and all. Then took two more before he bit out his carotid. I knew my fucking old man wasn’t kidding.

We got to the swamp at a spot where the current was pretty quick and where the alligators fed. My old man made him kneel. He pissed himself. My old man says to me, ‘Time to grow up you worthless piece a shit. Time to earn your keep. That Meth’s worth more than you’ll ever be and now’s your turn at protecting the family business.’ I just stared at him. Then I played the sound of Uncle Jasper crunching through Jean Luis Sarkozy’s fingers in my head and I…”

“You knew the guy Uncle Jasper ate?” Giddy spat out incredulously.

“Sure, small town.”

“And you know this guy you’re gonna whack?” Heck followed with equal incredulity.

“Sure. He taught me how to skin my first deer and then how to jerk it. I spent six weeks hunting with him once when my old man was in jail for running moonshine. I was maybe six and a half. He knew better than to fuck with Uncle Jasper’s shit and he damned sure knew better then to fuck with our Meth. I just looked at my old man and he levelled the Magnum at my chest and said, ‘Choose Elliot.’ Hahn, he never called me Elliot…I just thought about that. Hmm. ‘Either you kill him and live or I kill him then you; either way boy he’s alligator bait you useless little puke.’ So it was be shot, look scared or ask to be let off which means, I’m scared then I’d get eaten by Uncle Jasper alive or just shoot the moron. I swallowed hard, dug the butt of the Mossberg into the ground careful to stay clear of the barrel and pumped it. Then I aimed at his chest, I always played hell with its muzzle climb, switched off the safety and squeezed the trigger.

We cut him up into arms and legs and his head off and crushed it up, tossed him into the swirling black water, cleaned up, went home and had supper. Fresh caught catfish and Mustard Greens stewed in red peppers and bacon fat. I’d caught and cleaned the fish that morning and picked the greens down the road at Mrs. Jardin’s in exchange for mucking out her pig pen that afternoon. Fish was good for a change. She’d given me some corn flour and a little milk and three brown speckled eggs so I made a batter. I guess if it comes to it, Tyse, I’ll use the new Barrett. It does shoot really well. Giddy have Hiram throw in some a those new rounds too; the Hornady 450 gr BTHP I like them. Fuckers are supersonic for 2000 meters. Thanks.”

The team rode the rest of the way to SSC headquarters in near silence. Only the sound of Giddy’s hushed voice ordering Salem’s ammo filled the truck.  


 


	8. Out of the Frying Pan and...

_ Chapter Eight _

_ Out of the frying pan and… _

 

 

The team rolled into the underground garage of SSC headquarters twenty silent minutes later. They grabbed their Go bags from the bed of Rios’ Ford and made for their designated staging area in the vast basement of the fifteen story building. The Go bags were minimal at best. The men carried them at the request of local law enforcement should they ever need the SSC teams to assist during an emergency. The deal was part of the extensive agreement between Miami-Dade and SSC when the company began filing for the permits to build their huge world headquarters facility.

Pedro was there loading gear, mostly communication gear, both visual and audio, into the specially outfitted Range Rover. The big flat black vehicle was equipped with light armor and heavy gauge expanded steel grate was set on hinges so that all of the windows could be covered to protect the limo black tinted glass from rocks, pipes and clubs. They’d opted for that instead of bullet proof glass. You can’t shoot out of bullet proof glass any better than you can shoot into it. Elrod Fitzclover was walking around the truck polishing the headlights and checking the tire inflation. Rios smiled at the short, barrel chested fifty-five year old man and dropped his duffle bag near the front driver’s side door.

Elrod Fitzclover had been damned with an awful name but the man could drive like no one else Rios had ever met. Even with only the tippy top of his well-rounded bald head barely above the steering wheel the man could drive a tractor trailer in reverse through the eye of a needle, in zero visibility, at ninety miles an hour while taking automatic weapons fire. He’d saved the team’s hide on more occasions than Rios liked to think about. Him and Salem tended to butt heads a bit but Salem was Salem and it often didn’t take much to rub him the wrong way. The mere fact the Fitz, as the team called him, and Tyson were friendly, they restored old cars together a hobby Salem had no patience for, was enough to earn Salem’s ire.

“We good Fitz? Not gonna run outta gas again are we?”

Fitzclover laughed at the comment. They were only going ten miles south so it was funny now but three years ago in the Congo it hadn’t been. He’d neglected his duty, as it were, after a night of self-pity inspired binge drinking over the death of one of his closest friends to Cholera and failed to top the big truck’s tanks off. They’d run out while fleeing, with their objective, from about sixty very irate members of Kony’s L.R.A. Somehow Fitzclover managed to milk the big truck to the side of the dirt road and negotiate a bounding skid down a steep embankment into a rapidly flowing river. The militiamen couldn't follow in their trucks and the big Range Rover simply floated, bouncing off the bottom with the current until it came to ground on a sand bar fifteen klicks downstream. They called in for extraction and Fitzclover, having spent over a dozen years working in Africa, arranged for a buddy’s Huey to snatch the big truck and haul it to safety. Hence the name Rumford Rhino. Rhino for the big mean black Rhinos that hunters sought out and were damned hard to bring down because of their armor tough hide and Rumford which Fitzclover said meant river crossing; further explaining that the alliteration also worked well.

“Ready as always, boss. Just a little weird having to work so close to home. Even at six point eight MPG we’ll be good.” He replied chuckling.

“Yea seems that feeling’s going around.” Rios growled out while casting a sidelong look at Elliot who was talking animatedly to Hiram at the cart with all of their weapons. “Good, I figure all we need is old Rumford Rhino here. It’s not a far ride so we’ll all just pile in with the gear.”

“Roger that.”

Rios picked up his bag and continued to where the rest of the team now stood donning tactical vests and other assorted pads and gear near their lockers. Each of the SSC teams had a staging area complete with lockers, a small ready room for briefings and de-briefings, parking for their rigs, a work room for making equipment repairs or modifications and a small shower room. The real barracks and lockers were up on the eighth, ninth and tenth floors, but it was here, in the bowels of the modern glass and stone hi-rise that the teams performed final staging and departed from.

As Rios suited up he watched Richard Dalton, Alice Murray and Ernest Stockwell standing a hundred yards away near the elevator bank conferring with a man whom Rios pegged for one of the Miami Dade big wigs. It was already beginning to look like a three ring circus. From the way the bosses were dressed it was apparent that they would be going to the objective to observe. Tyson unzipped his bag and followed the others in getting dressed. As he snugged the final straps of his Kevlar vest he looked across the below ground garage and saw Yarborough exit the elevator with his team. They too were dressed for action Balaclava’s and all. Before he could say anything Salem rose to the occasion.

“Jesus Christ and fuck me twice! Can this shit storm go any fucking farther south? I swear to god if that black fucker says as much as one word to me I’ll kill him.”

“Ignore him Salem and that’s an order.” Rios snapped sternly. The pre-Valentine’s day fight was still a raw memory for both teams and neither Yarborough nor Salem had made an inkling of an effort to settle into a reasonable truce.

The tone of his voice broached no dissent, not even from Salem. He clamped his jaw shut, yanked his Balaclava onto his head after brushing his long bangs back across the top and began to carefully roll the mask up until it sat upon his head like a watch cap. Rios just couldn’t wait for Salem to discover that Samantha’s father Art was also involved in the op, whatever the op was; Murray still hadn’t briefed them.

Just as the team finished their coms check and settling on call signs the quartet of bosses with Yarborough in tow joined them. Salem still hadn’t donned his Balaclava so Rios reached over before the Miami detective got there and yanked it down.

“Murray what do we have?” he snapped glaring at Salem who was making faces behind the black mask.

Rios deferred straight to the woman because as far as he was concerned she was their handler. She sighed because she knew the men were not going to like what she had to say.

“You settle on call signs?”

“Roger that, we’re using the Cookbook.”

Alice nodded and before responding ran the list of names through her memory. Rios and Salem would be Sprout and Green Giant respectively and collectively Team Birdseye. Giddy and Heck were Snap and Crackle and together team Kellogg. Secour was Fruit Pie and Burke, his regular partner who was away on vacation, went by Zinger. Together they were team Hostess. It was simple but in a foreign country your typical simple militiaman had no reference to guess them by.

“First things first. It’s been decided that you’ll don masks and make sure your Bio links are on and up. Dalton thinks that this is a good way to demonstrate how PMC technology can be used for civilian purposes and give them a heads up of how you work. Pedy’s loading extra monitors. The op, I’m not going into detail here. This is Detective Roy Smith; he’ll give you a very brief intro. Then once we are on site you will receive a full op briefing from Art Norris. I know you are all familiar with him. Roy meet SSC tactical op team Papa. Sprout,” she pointed to Rios, “is the lead and once we are in position the remaining call signs will be addressed.”

“Pleasure gentlemen.”

Salem guffawed at the greeting and both Murray and Rios flashed him a foul look. Dalton just grinned. He’d always liked Salem. Sure the boy was a handful but he had spirit. He was everything Dalton wished he could have been when he’d first gone into the military. The aloofness and disdain for the rules that made Elliot so brash had been driven from Richard Dalton at an early age first by his father and uncles and then by West Point. He enjoyed watching Salem work as much as he enjoyed watching him misbehave.

Smith conversely eyed the smallest member of the group icily. Compared to rest of team Papa he looked like a little kid. He stared for a moment longer noting the lack of fear or submission in Elliot’s hazel eyes then reluctantly broke away and continued.

“We have a hostage standoff. We have a single as in solo, white male holding a family of twelve on a pleasure yacht, a 55 foot Bertram, the Deidra Marie, off the shore of 110 South Point. We have several assets on site. Both on land and water. We are into the sixth hour of what have been futile negotiations. The catch is he’s wired eleven of the family members with what our sniper team says is Semtex and has them clumped at the stern of the boat. He’s holding a detonator. The twelfth, a sixteen year old male, he keeps dragging up and down to the flying bridge for cover. My problem is that our target is on a moving yacht at a minimum 650 meters off shore with a kid in the way. It’s flat out there today but still… My best shooter is good to 800 in perfect conditions. None of my guys are equipped to make that kind of shot and taking him down seems to be our only option. The Feds have a guy but he’s in California training. Next nearest guy is Kentucky. We have a twenty four hour deadline. Six have been burned. There is no way the Feds are going to give him what he wants and the negotiator feels that he might not go the full twenty-four hours. It came to me, through the grapevine so to speak, that SSC had a shooter with that skill set so I’m here. We figure the roof of…”

“Stop, Dick. Murray I don’t want to hear anything about the site. I’d rather see it and make my own conclusions, ones that aren’t clouded by anyone else’s observations.”

“Dick?” Roy Smith snarled.

“You’re a detective right Dick? Detectives are dicks, like I’m a shooter.”

“That’s your shooter, Dalton.”

“The term is Sniper, Detective Smith.” Dalton corrected sounding surreptitiously polite. He wanted to make Detective Smith happy, to show off his best team but he’d be damned if the man insulted his people.

“God damned gun’s as big as he is Dalton. Really this is your solution! An insolent little ass bitch.”

Rios groaned. Giddy and Heckler shuffled their feet and Secour considered flipping the safety off on his Deagle.

“It always fall to my ass.” Salem moaned with feigned dejection. “And for your edification it’s a weapon, Dick. As for my little ass; you’ll have to fight that one,” he pointed at Yarborough, “for it.”

Yarborough bullied up but held his ground.

“You know you really rub me the wrong way. I’m surprised an outfit like SSC tolerates such insolence. If you were under my command…”

“I rub you the wrong way, Dick?”

“Salem don’t. Just…” Rios said quietly into his mic knowing full well where the conversation was headed and that Salem would hear him.

“Well,” Salem began with another theatrical sigh, “you know what they say Dick. Rub a dick right, rub a dick wrong; in the end you always just get a bigger dick, Dick.”

“Green Giant,” Murray cut in rolling her eyes and holding up her hand to silence Salem. “Roy just step off. Sure if that’s what you want Green Giant. Let’s just load up and get out there. Sprout I don’t need to tell you to keep a tight lid on the cook pot do I?”

“I got it Murray.” Rios responded with a disgusted look Salem’s way which the smaller man merely met with a non-committal shrug.

After the group strode away team Papa started to load up. Salem was still grumbling about Yarborough and Dick and his Balaclava being itchy.

“Kermit can the blabber now and get in the fucking truck.” Rios ordered.

“Kermit can the blabber. Fucking shooter my happy ass; fucking Dick wad fucker. I’ll show him a shooter; my gun’s bigger than me. Dick faced …”

Rios slapped the back of his head hard and Salem turned on the bigger man.

“You better step off Tubby don’t push me today!”

“Salem,” Rios stopped when Fitz tooted the Range Rovers horn to hurry the duo up. “Load up; shut the fuck up and start figuring out how we’re gonna make this shot in front of god only knows how many reporters.”

Salem huffed, slid the big Barrett off of his back and crawled into the middle row seat next to Heckler. Rios slammed the door shut, climbed into the front passenger seat, slammed his door shut with a second resounding bang that made Fitzclover flinch and pointed for him to move out.

“Can’t believe we have to wear the god damned masks and we ain’t even gonna get shot at. Fucking fuckers. You remember to fuel up this time Clover? Fuckin truck gets what two MPG and we’re going oh…let me see all a ten miles from home sweet home; stupid fucking can’t shoot straight civilian pukes. They bad mouth, bad mouth, bad mouth us; then once they need…”

En-mas the team hollered, as they’d done on countless other occasions when Elliot was caught in a rant, “Salem shut the holy fuck up!”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Tolerance

_CHAPTER NINE_

_ Tolerance _

_Rios Residence_

 

As soon as her father’s truck turned the same corner that Salem had rounded earlier that morning jogging, Nala took off running down the driveway her bright pink flip flops slapping a staccato beat across the pristine concrete. She darted straight to her room, and threw herself across the bottom of the twin bed narrowly missing the four, _watch dragons_. The girl squeezed her eyes shut, and ground the heels of her hands into them trying to halt the tears forming there. She couldn’t explain why she felt so upset about the men leaving. She’d said good bye to them dozens of times before, for far more dangerous missions.

“Grrr.” She growled, flopping over onto her back irritated with her weakness, then reaching to her right she picked up the smallest of the stuffed dragon quartet, Elliot’s dragon, set it on her chest, and gentle stroked its head and back.

“Why were you crying Dragon One? You’ve never cried at goodbye time, not ever. But there were tears in your eyes. I won’t tell anyone Dragon One; I’ve got your six on it. But why? That’s what scares me, why?”

When the small stuffed dragon offered up no response she set it back in its place, and sat up.

“Nothing for it then guys.” She addressed the group tersely, “I’ll just suit up, occupy the family room, by force if necessary, and monitor the situation. The guys are local. I could tell by how Grampa Art acted. Some thing’s going down nearby. The local news boobs will definitely be on it.”

Ten minutes later once again dressed in her all black mission clothes Nala stood in front of the tall thin gun safe tucked inside of her closet studying her Air Soft load out choices.

“Let’s see…the family room is CQB stuff so I’ll need my Tokyo Marui H & K MK23 USSOCOM pistol. Then, for a bigger kick, I don’t really need full auto so… I’ll go with my, and again a beautiful Tokyo Marui weapon, my M870 shot gun. Do I want the Dragunov? I can pretty much hold ‘em back from anywhere in the house with the 870, but if they decide to try and breech from an exterior position…yea what the hell my Dragunov goes too. It’s an A&K weapon and I wish Marui made one but oh well.”

Guns inspected, and loaded, body armor donned, and the safe re-locked Nala made for her objective surprised, and relieved that no one had bothered to check on her.

Another ten minutes after exiting her room, and after arranging a six pack of Cott’s grape soda, a bag of Salt and Vinegar chips, a bag of spicy Pork Rinds, a packet of Teriyaki beef jerky, and some of the Shrimp Boudin on the end table beside Rios’ big the recliner she settled into the leather chair with the 870 on her right, well within a one move reach. The H&K was strapped to her right thigh low like Salem wore his, and the Dragunov was stowed beneath the sofa. What the enemy didn’t know played into her hand. The Dragunov would be her ace in the hole. Sighing she grabbed the remote, clicked on the big flat screen television, and hit nine for the local news.

“Yup, stupid news boobs, so predictable.” Then, in a sarcastic voice remarkably similar to Salem’s, read the red trailer scrolling along the top of the screen aloud. “Breaking story, a hostage standoff downtown at South Pointe drive… Gotcha guys, you can’t hide from me.”

Nala reached over opened a can of grape soda, stuck in a straw, sipped it, then leaning back opened the recliner. She crossed her feet, and un-crossed them taking a second to push at her Randall fixed blade strapped to her right ankle with her booted left foot. Finally, content that it was properly settled, she flipped her mask down, and prepared to watch the circus unfold.

Forty-five minutes later the sound of footsteps drew her attention from the unfolding story, and she sat up straighter.

“Nala are you in here? Nala? The kids are waiting to play water tag.”

“Over here, mom.” She replied innocently, albeit, while preparing for the coming battle by un-holstering the H & K.

Samantha strode the remaining way into the family room, took one look at the television, then one look at her armor clad daughter, and started hollering as she moved straight for the television intent upon shutting it off.

“No, you are not watching whatever it is, is going on young lady, and get out of those ridiculous clothes!” Samantha demanded reaching for the off button. The sound of the H & K’s action stopped her short, and when she turned back toward Nala she saw the weapon leveled at her chest in the child’s steady hands.

“Step away from the television Samantha.”

“Huh! Sam…Samantha? I am your mother young lady, and do not aim that filthy weapon at me. Put it down this instant.”

“Step away from the television now.”

“I will not! You wouldn’t dare fire that thing at me! Put it down now!”

The H & K’s Air Soft pellet pinged off a photograph on the entertainment center’s shelf, of Salem, Rios and Nala at an Air Soft event, and ricocheted into Samantha’s furrowed forehead as she reached once again for the television’s off button. Flabbergasted that Nala would actually shoot at her Samantha recoiled, and stepped back three paces. She settled her hands on her narrow hips, and seethed.

“Nala Brittany-Ann Rios…”

Nala’s second shot zinged passed Samantha’s left ear, fluffing up her hair, un-settling a second picture on the teak entertainment unit.

“Step away from the television Samantha. I will not ask you again.”

“That’s it. I am calling your father, young lady. I will get him on the phone, and he will, he will…” She paused trying to think of how Tyson or Elliot would speak to the child mercenary to get her under control. He will order you to…” Then, it came to her. The words Tyson used to get Elliot under control. “He will order you to stand down.”

Nala giggled, Samantha fumed, and the television reporter stated that an elite team from SSC was enroute to the scene to assist the Dade county teams confirming Nala’s theory.

“Sorry Samantha, but it’s too late. They are in their Cloister Time, and can’t be disturbed. So your choice lady, step off, or pow right between your beguiling eyes.”

“My beguiling, beguiling! How in the hell do you know the meaning of beguiling, and how dare you use that term on me.”

“Spain ring a bell Samantha. Then there’s private school with A.P. vocabulary class, go figure, but just go do it somewhere else ‘cause I’m losing my patience.” Nala sniped back wagging the barrel of the HK in the direction of the kitchen. “Move along, shows over, for you at least.”

“Just you wait; just you wait till your father gets home. He won’t even approve of this behavior, and if your maniacal uncle does I’ll have him shot if you grandfather can’t have him sent away.”

Before she could turn to leave a third shot flitted from Nala’s H & K, and struck Samantha in the center of her chest on the jade and onyx pendant she wore. The pendent was smaller than a half dollar, and she was stunned that Nala’s aim was good enough to hit it even from only ten feet away.

“That’s a final warning Samantha. Don’t _ever_ threaten my Dragon One again. Daddy doesn’t let anyone do it, and neither do I. And just so you know; I am just as accurate with my 9MM Zastava.”

Samantha froze. The coldness in Nala’s voice terrified her. The timbre had shifted from the seriousness of the earlier conflict to something far more sinister, and Sam shivered under her daughter’s steely glare. Mouth agape she stared back trying to decide if Nala would actually choose Salem over her. The answer she saw in Nala’s piercing eyes was clear. Stunned by the revelation the trembling woman exited the family room, and went straight back to the patio where the rest of the women were watching the unfolding events on the outside television set.

Out on the patio Samantha and Tyson’s mothers, Heckler’s wife Zoe, and Giddy’s wife Gwen were all staring intently at the huge television.

“Everything alright dear?” Sam’s mother queried noting her daughter’s pale complexion.

For a moment, embarrassed that she could not control her child, Samantha considered lying, and saying yes, but the unbelievable events had left her overwhelmed, and instead she blurted out a brief version of what had occurred.

“Let me talk to her, Samantha. She likes, well we see eye to eye, and Salem and I are close so; let me go see how she’s doing. Probably she’s just throwing up a strong front to look brave.”

“Fine Zoe fine, if you say so, but I can’t believe she threatened to shoot me, shot me.”

Zoe made her way into the family room, and sat down on the leather sofa across from Nala. The H & K was back in its holster, and Nala’s mask was up so that she could nibble on the Boudin.

“Mom sent you.”

“Well yes and no. You doing ok?”

“Roger that. The guys are ten mikes out so it should all get started pretty quickly now.”

“Yea, it’s ok to be scared for them.”

“What?” Nala snapped turning her attention to Zoe. “I’m not afraid for them. I’m…I’m worried about my Dragon One is all.” She finished off indignantly.

“Why sweet heart? If I read this thing right they’ll be well out of harm’s way. I’m sure your dad and him are Insertion Team One, but it’s nothing nearly as risky as what they usually handle. Just something Dade can’t handle.”

Nala sighed. Of all the others she trusted Zoe the most. The kind woman, who was ex-Air Force, and Salem, had a special bond for some reason. The girl could sense it, but she’d never been able to puzzle out just why. There had been bad blood between Heck and Elliot over it a long while back. Nala recalled the trying times, but beyond remembering missing Salem’s visits because he’d steered clear of the team, outside of work, for nearly two months, she’d been too young to really understand, or recall exactly what the problem was.

“Dragon One was crying when they left. He’s never ever cried at good-bye time before. I don’t know why, and I’m scared for them. Please don’t tell him, Zoe please. I shouldn’t have said anything he’ll hate me forever. He was tryin so hard to hide it. Do you think his gut was saying something bad was gonna happen? He trusts his gut. Daddy says he’s the one that taught him to listen to his better. Says it’s one of Dragon One’s best qualities.” Then sadly, “I wish he’d tell Dragon One that though. He’d be proud to hear it.”

“Yea, Elliot likes to hear a compliment, and the guys don’t give him many do they?” Zoe agreed chuckling. “No, it’s ok it’s our little secret, and just so you know I’ve seen him cry before too so it’s alright, Nala. I can’t answer the why though. That is strange.”

“You’ve seen him cry?” Nala queried sitting up, and staring intently at Zoe the Boudin now forgotten.

“Yea, I have; and that, my little girl friend, is Elliot’s and my little secret. But as for today, I think maybe this is all just a little too close to home for him, sweetie. You know how he won’t discuss anything about work; well this one’s gonna be damned hard to hide, or hide from. To hide from you, and himself, and his friends; I think maybe he’s worried that you’ll see something, and that he’ll disappoint you, and that although he’ll get them home just fine something will happen, and he’ll lose you.”

“Great, and I shot mom. Grampa’s really gonna try to take me away now.”

“No one’s taking you anywhere, Nala. Your dad would never let that happen, and if it came down to choosing between SSC and your mom, or keeping you, Elliot and himself together he’d do anything it took. You’re a smart girl Nala, and I know you know that your mom is not quite what moms and wives should be, and trust me honey your dad is a firm believer in CYA. So I’m guessing he’s got as much dirt on Art and your mom as Art thinks he has on Elliot.”

“Covering your ass; yup he is that, so ok I feel better, but I’m still gonna watch them so just keep mom outta my sector ok.”

“Roger that, and look, there, at the scene; there they are just pulling up now in Rumford Rhino. You need me you know where I am.”

“Roger that.”

  


 


	10. Check The White Knight

 

_ Chapter Ten _

_ Check the White Knight _

_110 South Pointe_

 

As Fitzclover threaded Rumford Rhino through the throng of law enforcement personnel staging in the street below 110 South Pointe Drive Salem scowled. He was angry beyond belief, and struggling to maintain some semblance of professionalism. After initially shutting up when the team scolded him, just out of SSC’s parking garage, he’d started up again, and four miles into the trip Rios had heard enough. He warned Elliot three times to can the bitching, then clambered over the seat, and knocked him out with a deft palm strike to the left side of his head. Two miles back, Giddy stuffed an Amyl Nitrate ampule under the smaller man’s nose to rouse him, and Salem had been silent ever since. His scowl spoke volumes though, and Giddy, seeing the man’s distress, voiced his opinion for him.

“Would you look at these silly fuckers, Fifty. Full tac gear, and for fucking what. The god damned boat is on the other side of the building. Bastard’d need a Tomahawk missile to hit them over here. No wonder they need us.”

“Don’t get him started Giddy. Come on one concussion a day’s enough for any man even a tough little ass bitch like Fifty.” Heckler snapped punching Salem lightly in the back of his head.

“Fuck off Heck. I’m not concussed. Takes a bigger man than that fat fucker to concuss me.”

“Do the AVPU on him Gid he loves the AVPU.”

“Alright children settle down; we ain’t out in the middle of god damned bush, and we have eyes on us everywhere so tighten up.”

“Aye, aye captain Rios.” Heckler snapped back.

“Heckler I mean it.”

“Hey, it’s a boat thing; I’m just trying to build the mood.”

“Salem you with us? How’s your head?”

“Fuck my head.”

“Good Kermit; I’m glad to see that you’re your regular pain in my ass self. Fitz pull up there, there by Murray, and let’s kick this shit in the ass so we can go home. Masks on gents it’s show time.”

Fitz braked the big vehicle to a halt Rios, and the team piled out. Dalton, Murray and Art approached them immediately. Upon seeing Art, Salem turned, walked away, and stood for with his back to the group sulking. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to have to work for the hateful man. Giddy finally went to him, and after they spoke quietly for a bit Salem huffed, and returned to the briefing.

“Ok, guys,” Murray continued eyeing Salem warily. His body poster left little doubt that he was irate. “We have a comm center set up in the lobby. Let’s all regroup in there. M.I.T. head on in, and see a guy named Ruiz, he’s Dade’s comms man, and he’s working with the feds as well. Sync our shit with them.”

Secour nodded, then looked to Rios who shook his head in approval. Murray might be the team’s handler, but Rios had the final say. Murray ignored the slight, and began to herd the remaining men toward the large, ornately etched double doors of the luxury condominium. Salem held back studying the buildings to the north and south of the 110 address.

“Kermit?” Rios said as he sidled up alongside the smaller man. He trusted Elliot’s instincts, and if the man needed a bit longer to study the land, then he’d allow it. “Murray we need a minute.”

“Roger that, we’ll see you inside.”

“Salem, problem.”

“Don’t like being on the low ground’s all.” He stated pointing to the two buildings that flanked 110 South Pointe. “We’re like ten stories, and those two are fourteen maybe fifteen. I just don’t like being down in the valley.”

Rios studied the situation. Salem was correct, they would be in the _valley_ as he'd described it. An urban valley, but still it was low ground, and low ground spelled trouble.

“Ok, can we get a shot from either of them?”

“Doubt it; stupid civie fuck’s right about that much at least. I haven’t seen it yet, but that fucking boat’s just that way about one o-clock.” He continued pointing just south of 110. About one o-clock right through there. This is the best building, but still it creeps me out a bit.”

“Yea, well Dade says so far this guy is flying solo, so I doubt we’ll have eyes on us from the high ground, Elliot. So let’s just have a look see, and if you still don’t like it we’ll come up with plan B ok.”

“Roger that, Boss, let’s go.”

Inside the lobby about twenty-five people from various agencies were bustling about. Rios walked straight to Murray who was surrounded by Giddy and Heckler, as well as Art, Dalton and Detective Roy Smith, and several other men. Despite the fray the strong woman was definitely holding the reigns. They were all studying a blueprint showing the roof plan of the condo. Rios and Elliot squeezed in, and Salem bullied in, and leaned down to better see the drawing. He studied it, and after a moment found the scale on the bottom of the sheet. Then he took out a pencil, and after marking off the scale length on a page of his note book, began ticking off the distance from the edge of the building beachside, to the door through which they’d enter the roof. He also measured the distances between the eight large, ten foot by ten foot air handlers spread out across the roof, and began to make notes in his little notebook.

“How far off shore is the target, Detective Smith?” he finally asked breaking the tense silence.

Smith started a bit at the sound of his name, and furrowed his brow. Maybe, he thought, it was Salem’s mask causing the man’s voice to sound at least an octave lower than it had back at SSC’s headquarters, but besides the change in timbre it also seemed far more professional. If Smith wasn’t standing right there with Salem in sight he’d swear he was dealing with an entirely different man. He coughed to hide his confusion, and spoke up.

“At last check my guy had him at 650 meters with his spotter’s scope. That was an hour ago so I guess he could have shifted. He is anchored, but that’s sandy bottom out there, and if he’s not a boat guy he could easily drag anchor.”

“Art, sorry, Detective Norris, get me another scope on that please.” Art hesitated then moved away from the group. “This is what a ten story building; is there an elevation plan in these drawings?”

A Dade county man began flipping through the ream of blue prints finally stopping on the page Elliot requested.

“Here, elevation’s right at 130 feet. So that means…Detective Smith you mentioned the ass wipe took a shot at your guys when they approached the edge of the building.”

Smith hesitated, he had mentioned it, but he didn’t think that Salem had been in ear shot. That meant that the young man was a lot smarter than he was letting on. He must have overheard him when he was first speaking with Murray and Dalton as they were walking across the staging area.

“Yea, guess I did. Why?”

“Caliber?”

“Why are you asking the questions, I thought he was the team leader?”

“Because, Detective, it’s gonna be my job to get his fat ass into position without him getting his even fatter head blown off. Now caliber?”

“A seven-six-two. We dug the round out of my man’s vest. Damned accurate too.”

“Couldn’t a been too damned accurate, man still has his head right? Where were they, how far across?”

“Right on the edge.”

“Morons.”

“Talk to me, Green Giant.” Rios cut in switching to the call signs they would use once the op began.

Salem flipped back through the blue prints to the roof plan, did some work in his little note book, then started talking to Rios. Giddy and Heckler paid very close attention after effectively pushing the Dade agents back out of the way.

“My figures have us being able to get within forty-three maybe forty-four feet of the edge. He’s got some elevation on us the mother fucker. That flying bridge, plus the boat gives him damn near thirty feet. Forty-three though, that’s the point where he can see us, and me him if I’m standing up. I’ll need to creep in a bit closer, my bi-pod gives us a bit of elevation too, so for a clean sight line I need to be maybe at I’m guessing thirty feet off the edge. I’d like closer, but with you along I don’t want to risk it.”

“I can hang back.”

“Negative, I want your eyes on this too. The kid’s a big issue. See,” he pointed to a snapshot of the target holding the twelve year old boy as a human shield. “Detective Norris you have my answer?”

“Still sitting at 650.”

“Good, what’s he think he’s negotiating for?”

“Six men down in Gitmo, it’s not gonna happen so it’s all a matter of playing him until you guys are in place.”

“Great. We go in along the north side of these units. Slow and easy, and I want Kellogg up on a floor where they can glass that son of a bitch, and tell me when he’s looking. No, scrap that. Sprout,” he paused sighed and shook his head clearly not happy with his forthcoming decision. “I’m shelving you bro. Too risky. I need to be twenty feet off that edge, and it might take me fucking two hours to make that final twenty-two feet. I…”

“We might not have two hours!” Detective Smith cut in. “Art tell him.”

Art Norris looked long and hard at the man he felt was destroying his daughter’s marriage, and turning his granddaughter into a soulless monster. He hated to admit to it, but Salem was a consummate professional. He’d extrapolated the Trigonometry for the shot without a calculator, crunching the figures in his head, he’d read the blue prints of the roof layout with the skill of an architect, and now he was making a critical operational decision all without the aid of Rios, or the rest of the team; who all simply stood stoically listening to, and trusting the young man’s assessment of the situation.

“Easy Roy. What do you need from us, Green Giant?”

Salem chuckled, it was a soulless, cold chuckle and it chilled Art’s heart. “Make that talkie fuck you call a negotiator do his job, and buy me the time I need. I’m not sticking my head up like your guys did. ‘Sides he sees another man glassing him, and he’s likely to come unhinged.”

“Green Giant,” Murray spoke up. “ You’re confident you can do this with one set of eyes?”

“Feel better if I had a spotter, but such is the fucked up life of a sniper. Sprout will be in a good observational twenty to give me sound intell. Say here,” he flipped back through the blue prints to the elevation page. “Here, eighth floor middle unit; Sprout I need you to set up there.” He pointed toward the ocean midway across the lobby to demonstrate Rios’ tentative position in the eighth floor unit. “I’m gonna slink in along the units to here,” He flipped back to the roof plan, and planted his index finger on the spot he needed. “Then, at the fifth unit, thirty feet in, I’m gonna slip out, and start my final approach. I think I’ll end up about 150’ north of the south edge. We can fine tune it. This way just about everything you’re kicking me is about half what I need dope wise. I’ll sort of calibrate, and double check what you send. Kellogg you guys need to be on ten just glassing that fucker like a hawks. Guys he looks my way, and I need to know. Or really when he’s not, then I can speed up my crawl. Ok, I have 1500 hours Zulu, we all good with that. Mission clock starts now… Good, then move out, and get this shit in gear. I’m hungry. Oh, and I need Pedie and Clover. I need to tweak my Ghillie suit.”

Five minutes later Pedro, Fitz and Salem were inside the tenth floor stairwell of 110 South Pointe looking out of the roof access door across the ground Salem would soon be traversing. It was a bright white expanse of white rubber.

“Jesus Christ, and fuck me twice. What the fuck kinda roof is this bitch.” Salem spat out squinting against the blinding glare shooting off the roof deck.

“Fiber Tite.”

“And you know that why, Pedie?”

“Cousin, roofer, really a stupid fucker, but yea he talks about this stuff all the time. Rubber, they melt it together with a super-hot industrial blow dryer thing. It’s like hot enough to light a cigarette. Then they roll this little roller roller down the seams to press it together. They have a robot one for the long runs, but all the detail stuff needs done by hand. Cleaner than tar, but tedious as fuck. He hates it. Says it will fucking make you snow blind.”

“Nice, can we get me a white Ghillie suit? Maybe a white tarp. Where’s the nearest hardware store?”

Pedro tapped his mic and started to talk. “Murray I need a six by eight white tarp, like one a those ones people use for canopies. I need ten feet of schedule forty one inch PVC pipe, and some white linen. Get on it and have it brought up here stat.”

“Roger that.”

“Gonna be hot as fuck compadre, but you’ll be a ghost.”

“Yea, a ghost. Can you try, Pedro, to find a better description? Ghosts are typically dead. Clover, I need some, I don’t know what, but this shit’s tacky, something to slick up my armor, my knee pads, or maybe I should just loose them, so when I’m scooting, I’m not sticking. See how it sticks. And hurry guys the civies want closer.”  


  


 

 

 


	11. The White Knight's Gambit

_ Chapter Eleven _

_ The White Knight’s Gambit _

_110 South Pointe_

 

Twenty minutes later Salem was ready to move out. He carried his spotter’s scope, the Barrett, broken down, his Galil, and the little Makarov. He also wore a pack with five gallons of water, energy bars, Gatorade, his med kit and various other items he might need. Despite the Feds saying that as soon as Salem was in place they would green light the op, and he could take his shot, they’d packed for a long wait. From the time Elliot moved out until he executed the shot he’d be on his own. No one would be able to re-supply him. It was an odd situation, an ironic situation. Although, he was in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world he had no way to replenish his supplies. No one would be able to safely creep out to him without the risk of compromising the mission.

The temperature on the roof hovered at 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and was about ten degrees warmer under his camo. To prevent becoming ‘snow blind’ from the brilliant white glare of the roof he was wearing dark polarized glasses. Finally, ready to begin, Salem sighed, and slipped out of the elevator tower. He paused, crouching down for a long moment, and checked the buildings to the north and the south. He still had the tingly sense of danger about being on the low ground. All of his training taught him to avoid the low ground, and now, having to traverse it, set his hackles off despite the intell that the other two buildings were clear. He was a Sniper, and it takes a Sniper to find a Sniper. He glassed the two buildings with a well trained eye, and finally after fifteen long minutes he felt comfortable enough to move out.

“Green Giant to Sprout, you have me on your HUD?”

“Roger that.”

“Moving now, Sprout. Kellogg gimme something.”

“Green Giant, objective is below decks, repeat objective is below decks.”

“Roger that GG out.”

Downstairs in the lobby command center Alice was explaining the information streaming across the three 40 inch lap tops spread out across the buffet tables that the team had commandeered to use as a work station. Gathered around the diminutive woman were several Federal agents, several Dade agents, Art and Detective Smith. Yarborough and his team were also present but had their own set of smaller monitors.

“What you are looking at is a real time read out of Green Giant’s GPS position, here.” She pointed to a satellite image showing the area from an elevation of 650 feet. On the image was a blinking green triangle. “That’s Green Giant. As you can see he is moving. This is a more refined image as seen through Green Giant’s mask cam. Sprout can also see this image, and Green Giant can see an image of Sprout’s twenty. This is useful if they need to separate in battle. They can switch the image through, regular, Night Vision, and Inferred.”  

She paused allowing the group watch, through his helmet cam, as Salem slipped away from the elevator tower wall, and began moving toward the first of the large air handling units. The view was bright due to the white roof surface. She adjusted it slightly, and the picture was easier to make out. He walked in a low crouch, rolling from his heels to his toes staying toward the north side of the unit. This obscured his activity from the objective. His steps were so soft and smooth that the video barely jounced as he walked. When he reached the unit he slid in behind it, and squatted down with his back against it.

“I would like to remind all of you that Green Giant is carrying ninety plus pounds of gear. The Barrett alone is forty pounds. He is also toting five gallons of water and several quarts of Gatorade. He is only pulling about 175 pounds right now. In these temps he will be losing fluids rapidly, and he did not have time to take on extra hydration pre-mission. He is notoriously…”

“Green Giant hold your twenty, objective is on the deck.” Giddy’s voice cut in.

“Copy that Kellogg, objective on deck. Can’t we just call him the target? He is my target?”

“Negative, Green Giant.” Murray snapped. “You will refer to him as the objective.”

“That’s a fuck of a lot of bullshit. Sprout, you have eyes on the _objective_?”

“Roger that. Six-one, dark skinned, yellow ball cap, tan shirt and blue jeans and boots. The hostage, no hat, dark curly hair, Caucasian, red shirt, tan shorts, no shoes.”

“Roger that. Objective _target_ described as follows: Six-one, dark skinned, yellow ball cap, tan shirt and blue jeans and boots.”

“Roger that.”

“What about weapons?”

“Appears to be an AK, Green Giant. An AK with a scope. An ACOG. He came prepared.”

“Roger that. An AK doesn’t have the balls to hit at 650, Sprout; so what the fuck’d he hit the Swatty with. Moving.”

“Roger that, let me see what I can find out. Drink first Green Giant.”

“Don’t start with me, Sprout. I’ve only been out here thirty fucking mikes. Green Giant fucking out.”

“As I was saying,” Alice continued, “He is notoriously bad about not drinking and eating on ops.”

“Does he say the f-word enough?” One of the Feds asked.

Alice turned to the woman, whose face was flushed with embarrassment, and smiled.

“If a bit of language throws you off Agent Dempsey, then I highly suggest that you change careers.”

“It is simply not professional.”

Before Alice could respond further, Rios broke in.

“Delta base, Sprout. I need confirmation on the distance of the objective from the roof edge when the officer was hit. Copy?”

“Roger that Sprout hold one.” She clicked off the connection and faced Detective Smith.

“You heard that?”

“Yea, but I don’t have an answer. Why’s it so important?”

“You were listening to the team’s chatter?”

“Yes.”

“Then, detective, you should have extrapolated that an AK47 does not have legs enough to hit a target at 650 yards. Max range is about 440. The problem my team now faces is, does the objective have a secondary weapon on board? If so what is it? And more frightening did the shot come from a second assailant. Where in the vest was he hit?”

“Left side midway between his hip and his under arm.”

Alice processed the info while listening to the team’s radio chatter in her head set. This was what she did the best. Manage multiple situations at one time and reliably process and disseminate information to the men. She switched to a frequency which would connect her, via a secure SSC line, to Yarborough. What the feds and Dade didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Murray had learned long ago to always have a hole card, and this op was no different than any other. She turned away from the group and spoke quietly into her mouth piece.

“Yarborough, take your team, and double check the north building. Any floor with an angle high enough, and a sight line to take that shot. Be discreet. Monitor our freq. If there is a second man he may be in communications with our primary. Objective will be called the bathroom.”

“Roger that.”

Smith turned as Yarborough’s team began, with seemingly no apparent reason, to swiftly move out. As they walked they were checking and charging their wide array of weapons.

“Where’s he going?” he snapped to Murray.

“Bathroom break. How was your man standing when he was hit?”

“I don’t know. Vandenberg, get to the hospital and get me that info ASAP.”

“Don’t bother. Sprout?”

“Go ahead, Delta.”

“The Swatty was hit left side midway between his hip and under arm. The shot could have come from the north building, or just an off center shot from the boat.”

“Roger that. You copy Green Giant?”

“Jesus Christ and Fuck me twice, fuck yea I copy.”

Salem was now at the fifth unit. It was 16:45 Zulu. He was sweating profusely, and soaked through and through. He slid into cover, and sat down leaning the heavy pack against the air conditioner. In his ear piece he could hear the chatter between Murray and the rest of the men but he ignored it. His main concern now was the possibility of a second gunman in the north building. Kellogg had shifted its twenty to cover it, and he had to trust them. He tipped his mask up, drank from his first bottle of Grape Gatorade, and leaned his head back against the vibrating unit. After a few minutes he slipped the mask back down and studied the potential threat looming to his north. He saw nothing. Regular and inferred both showed a clear building. He sighed, and began to unpack his Barrett. This was the beginning of the hard part. Once he was in position he would have to minimize his elevation. He would remain prone and any movements he made had to be done from that uncomfortable position.

Down stairs in the bustling, air conditioned lobby Alice continued with her description of the specialized SSC gear.

“Now then, back to what we were discussing. This screen shows the real time vital signs of the men. For this op, only Green Giant and Sprout are wearing their VISAC gear, or Vital Sign Activity Collection Gear. It is DoD trademarked technology that we are testing, and fine tuning for contractual use by the Army. So far it has proven to be not only very accurate, but it also allows us to design very individualized training regimes for the men once our physicians interpret the collected data. You have heart rate, B.P., O2 absorption, etcetera as you can see there. The last is a flag if they stop moving. I can adjust the time before an alarm sounds, or just shut it down for when they sleep. This would be helpful in the event a man goes down. Each man can see the other’s readout as well. Now, oh excuse me; the first column, here, is their GPS coordinate. Moving on…”

“Green Giant to Delta team, moving on final approach. Is the bathroom clear?”

“Roger that, Green Giant. You are clear for final approach.”

“Roger that.”

“Bathroom Ms. Murray?”

“Just a bit of team humor, Detective Smith.”

As the lobby audience watched, Salem’s triangle slipped out from behind the air handling unit. The sound of keyboard buttons clicking filled the air, and suddenly the group had a roof top view of Elliot, now cloaked in a white Ghillie suit low crawling, at a snail’s pace, from behind his last piece of cover. If you didn’t know where to look for him he was literally invisible. The men could also still observe a view through his helmet cam. Prior to his slipping from cover, the view had been from about three feet above the roof deck; now it was only inches high

“That picture is incredible.”

“Yes Art. We have satellite capability with several DoD units as well as our own. It’s a costly endeavor, but an absolute necessity for keeping the guys safe. This final approach will take a while. Moving slowly is a fine art, and Green Giant is very, very good at it. You would be advised to have your men pay close attention to how he works.”

It took Salem three hours to crawl thirty feet. During the crawl he was in steady communication with the team. They gave him feedback on the objective’s location as well as updates on activity in the north building. Finally he was in position, and needed to talk Rios into a twenty as close to his as possible on the floor below.

“Sprout, Green Giant. I’m in position. I have good visual on the tar…objective, do you copy my GPS coordinate?”

“Roger that, moving. Make sure to hydrate, Green Giant.”

“Hydrate smyedrate, fuck you. I’d need a fucking IV drip to retain fluids up here.”

“In place at matching coordinate to you. I have a good visual on the objective. Preparing to gauge wind distance, and try and get a handle on the swell.”

“Roger that, likewise. Tide will change in three and a half hours. We’ll have a bigger swell during the change then I hope we get some luck, and it drops back like now. It’s fucking flat as fuck. Good thing I wasn’t gonna go surfing today. Fuck me twice that would a been a waste a my valuable time.”

“Your time is valuable?”

“Hell yea bro! Just think on it. How the fuck much are these boobs laying down for us to do their job today. Gonna get me that much closer to buying that truck I want.”

“Green Giant this is an open comms line, I repeat this comms line is open.”

“Fuck ‘em Murray. They need to have a thick skin. Only way to get schooled in this business is to watch the masters, or die trying. They won’t even die trying today. Their all safe and sound in a comfy air conditioned lobby. Sprout gimme your twenty again, and the relevant info.”

“Jesus Green Giant have a bit of tact! Truck; you have two. Now what truck?”

“Fuck tact Sprout. Oh a Raptor, red, all tricked out with that super awesome fake mud splash stuff on the sides. It’s rad man. They can fly dude. Saw a video of one jumping like sixty feet.”

“You do not need a flying truck.”

“Says who?”

“Me and I’m your accountant. Now listen up. I have him at 650, elevation from my twenty at 85, light wafting breeze out of the northwest. Real light though barely negligible. Taking it off the flag on the stern, and his anemometer is barely turning.”

“That’s a fucking accurate calculation Sprout. Barely turning? Barely negligible…Jesus Christ and fuck me twice! Gimme a minute to calculate wind speed you fat dope.”

“Fat dope, fat dope, how do you propose to get a better wind speed?”

“Off the anemometer of course. Let me school you, Tubby.”

“Tubby? I’m gonna kill you when we are done with shit.”

“So you always promise, but lo and behold here I still breath. So listen up, and take notes oh ye of little faith. Just a wee bit of math that Old Mother Hubbard taught me.”

“Old Mother Hubbard. Oh no way Green Giant don’t even start. We are not playing the Nursery rhyme game today. Don’t even try it.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Now first you just figure out the diameter of the vane, this one’s a pretty standard Inspeed model, with a cup diameter of six inches; so you get the circumference with Pi times six and that’d be 18.88. Then, just divide that by 12 to get feet, so that’s 1.573 feet, ok so now I just…”

“Kermit what in holy fuck are you going on about?”

“Shh, Sprout do not disturb the genius at work.”

“Genius! I ain’t never seen you do this shit before.”

“Sucks for you big guy. Now I just take the feet 1.573 and divide that by 5,280 to get my secret number for miles, and that’s 0.0002979797979, and now multiply that by our very slow RPM’s which will take a minute. I have to count so shut the fuck up if you can possibly find it in your being to do so Mr. Chatty Cathy.”

“What’d you just call me?”

The line went quiet except for the sound of Salem counting the excruciatingly slow rotation of the boat’s anemometer. He ignored the chatter in his headset, and focused on his counting. The only voice he processed was Kellogg telling him that the objective had come on deck. Three minutes later he piped in again.

“Best of three; so our wind speed is 46 RPM, plus 58 RPM, plus 55 RPM, and add them up for…159 total RPM. Divide 159 by three to get a happy, happy average of 53 RPM…humph that’s a weird number. 53 RPM. No, guess not 59 has a nine, and 3 has a 3 so yup, it’d be an even divide. Threes and nines are cool that way. Still’s weird. Now divide 53 by 60 for MPH and you get .8333 and a bunch more threes, so less than a mile an hour. See, now how fucking hard was that Sprout! Fuck of a lot more accurate than _barely turning_.”

“Green Giant you are so full of shit. Seriously .8333 miles per hour!”

“Just saying. Now can get back to business. I want dope on this shot, and it’s almost my nap time.”

In the lobby the group could only stand and listen to the men’s inane banter.

“Ah excuse me Detective Smith.” One of the Dade men finally broke in.

“Go ahead, Timmons.”

“While he was, well, figuring. I contacted the Life Guard tower about a thousand yards north of here, and they have, have had all morning, an average breeze, out of the Northwest at .845 MPH.”

The lobby went quiet, and the sound of Salem laughing evilly came across the comms link.

“Thanks Timmons. I owe you one, man. Beer’s on me after this fuck fest is over. God I am fucking good.”

 

_Rios Residence_

_18:33 Zulu Time_

One by one the women Mimi, Heck’s wife Zoe, Giddy’s wife, and Brittany’s dad trickled into the family room to watch the live news coverage. Only Pedro’s wife and children were missing. Samantha was the last to show up, and the kids that had been playing in the pool were settled in the kitchen with lunch. The adults sat quietly watching the reporter talk while a helicopter fed live footage of the roof tops, and of the boat anchored just off of the beach bobbing in the light swell. Except for the gravity of the situation it was a beautiful day to visit the ocean.

“Good afternoon; I am Leslie Radcliff, and we are here at 110 South Pointe where this hostage scenario is moving into its ninth hour. Chopper One is in the air, but is being kept, by Federal authorities at a distance of two miles, and we will talk with Hal Justin in a few moments.

The information we are able to obtain is very limited. The authorities, for matters of security, are letting very little information leak out about the scope of their actions to rescue these poor hostages. What we have uncovered, through confidential sources, is that a highly specialized hostage recovery team has been brought in. The vehicles, that two hours ago, entered the secured area bore the signage for Security and Strategy Corporation. A much maligned private military contracting company based here in Miami; SSC, as it is called, is often in the headlines for what some, in the military complex, consider highly questionable operations in countries all over the world. We did ask why this team was being called up, since Dade county, and the local Federal authorities do have their own hostage recovery teams. The answer we were given was vague. They have apparently been contracted, because of the delicacy involved. Apparently, despite the funds spent on training our local agencies, they do not possess the skill set, as the information officer called it, to successfully carry out this hostage recovery. We will now cut to Hal in Chopper One.

“What can you see Hal? We know that you are a ways off, but Chopper One has sophisticated observation equipment on board.”

“Not much Leslie. We have a perfect view of the roof top of 110 South Pointe, where as you know a Dade County Swat team officer was shot early on in this operation, while trying to set up a firing position.”

“Yes, and for our viewers, the officer is currently at the hospital for treatment, but will be fine. His bullet proof vest did its job, and all he has purportedly suffered are some very bruised ribs.”

“Yes Leslie, so that’s a bit of good news amidst what looks like is going to turn out to be a very long day for local law enforcement.”

“Hal, as you know, SSC has been brought in on this situation. We don’t know if they are only advising, or are taking an active role. We have seen little or no activity from them since they arrived several hours ago, and entered the lobby of 110 South Pointe. We did observe some of them moving into the building north of 110 with what seemed to be a wide array of weapons. The reappeared forty-five minutes later and disappeared back into the command center. Did you manage to see what they may have been doing?”

“No. As I said we have seen nothing. About three hours ago we saw what appeared to be three men looking out of the elevator tower door. They spent several minutes seeming to recon the roof top, and then disappeared back inside. Since then we have seen zero activity either on the roof, which my sources tell me provides the best vantage point should they decide to try to eliminate this guy with a sniper, or on the balconies and windows of the eastern façade of 110 South Pointe. We have no visual clues as to what the authorities are planning. Nothing has even moved on the adjacent buildings to the north and south. Whatever is going on is definitely not visible from our vantage point, and as you and our viewers can see we do have a very good high resolution video feed of the areas in question. If they are planning on trying to position a second sniper on this roof top, I clearly do not see how they would manage it. This man has already wounded one officer; so he clearly does not have any reservations about shooting first, and asking questions later.

Some have suppositioned that any attack on the boat would come from a water born assault team, thus explaining why have had no visuals. Possibly scuba divers of some sort. What we do know is that the likely hood that this man’s demands will be met are slim to none. He is requesting the release of twelve men from the Guantanamo facility, and unfortunately for these hostages that is probably not going to happen, and their lives are subsequently in the hands of whatever extraction team is sent to retrieve them.”

“Thanks Hal. Ok, well, we are going to leave the air for a moment. Apparently there is going to be a briefing so the view you will see is from Chopper One, and I hope to have something more when we return.”

The scene changed from a close up of Leslie’s face to one of Chopper One’s cameras scanning the roof and beachside face of 110 South Pointe. The group watching the television settled back slightly, and studied the screen as the cameras panned across the site. There was nothing to see. Nala took the break to open another Grape soda, and sipped it through the mouth of her mask.

“I hope Dragon One is remembering to drink. It’s probably 110 degrees in his camo on that roof. He’s bad about that, remembering to drink.”

“On the roof, Nala?” Brittany’s father asked, frowning at the girl’s remark. “There’s nobody on the roof Nala. Look its clear. The helicopter clearly shows it to be empty.”

“Oh, Dragon One’s on the roof Frank. He’s up there; you just can’t see him.”

The room grew quiet, and the rest of the kids poured in to watch the coverage.

Zoe corralled them, as only an elementary school teacher could do, and made the small group sit on the floor in front of the big television.

“Sit. All of you sit. Just sit here, be quiet, and do not touch any of Nala’s gear. Is that understood? Nicky?”

“Yes mom! Geeze. Don’t touch little Miss Mercs stuff. It’s the rule. I know.”

“Don’t try me, Nicholas.” Nala snapped at the boy, who was her nemesis. They were only days apart in age, and he was terribly jealous that when they played mercenary with the Air Soft equipment she always out shot, and out foxed him.”

“Don’t try me Nicholas. Don’t try me Nicholas. You know Nala, someday I’m gonna be bigger than you, and when that day comes none of your fancy Judo’s gonna be able to save you.”

“Size is a non-issue turd for brains. Just look at my Dragon One. Now shut up and watch the show.”

“Your Dragon One? He is not _yours,_ bigger turd for a brain. And tell her mom; it’s the news, not a _show_. And my dad’s there somewhere too. So take that and…”

“Yea, Nicky, and he’s probably at a twenty, inside, in the A.C., pulling an overwatch for Dragon One.”

“Yea and where’s your dad, Miss Merc? No way he could hide his fat ass…”

“Nicholas that’s enough!”

“But mom! Everybody calls him that.”

“No, everybody doesn’t call him that; only Salem and Salem gets his butt handed to him in a sling for it on a regular basis. Now both of you, that’s enough. No more bickering.”

“Yes, Nala, and Nicky’s right. This is not a _show_. See mom; that’s exactly what I am talking about. She plays with those two, and she thinks this all a game. Nala didn’t you hear what the lady said. A man, one of your Grandfather’s men, was shot this morning.”

“That’s because he was a civie, Swatty moron mom. You can’t just walk on out across a roof, with no cover, and expect to not get shot. Stupid Swatty amateur.”

The room grew quiet for a bit, and then Mimi spoke up.

“Nala, you seem to know a lot about how this is going to work. So, you really think that Elliot is out on that roof; waiting to shoot the man in the boat.”

“Yup, Gram. He’s probably out to just where he can see the boat. He’ll wait for the civie morons to green light the hit, and he’ll take him out. It’s the only solution. Dad and Uncle Elliot say nobody’s getting cut lose from Gitmo for any reason. They’re all too dangerous. That, and if they do they’re just gonna have to go out, and catch them all again. Which, Uncle Elliot sometimes sees as a good thing; ‘cause he’ll make good bank. But, dad tells him there are better ways to make a buck than doing a job twice. So yup, he’s there ‘cause the civies can’t make that shot. Plain and simple. Its 600 maybe 700 yards out, on a moving boat. It’ll damn sure take his fifty with that new supersonic ammo to pull it off. That and remember that picture they keep showing, how the baddie is holding that kid so close. It’s a tough shot. Dragon One hates when kids are involved too. Just hope he keeps his damned head down, and that remembers to drink. Fuck-n-A.”

None of the adults even attempted to correct her language. They all sat staring at her, trying to fathom how she’d become so learned about what the guys did. When the reporter came back on screen Nicholas got up, disgusted by the whole situation, and said he was going to play video games in the playroom. Several of the other kids traipsed off with him, and the remaining folks returned to trying to find Salem on the bright white roof.

 

_ 110 South Pointe Miami Beach _

_22:23 Zulu Time_

 

The group in the lobby was getting restless. No ground had been made toward getting the objective to release the hostages, or back down from his demands. The tide had come in, and the swell had settled back down. The elevation change was two feet, and Salem and Rios reworked their calculations to accommodate the change. They felt lucky that three hours later as the sun began to set the light breeze remained just that, light. Salem had been languishing in triple digit temperatures for over seven hours. The previous five in the prone position not moving his torso up or down more than fractions of an inch.

“Green Giant, Snap.” Giddy cued up.

“Go ahead, Snap.”

“Your temp’s climbing a bit buddy. 101.6. I really need you to be sure to hydrate.”

“Roger that. Working on the Gatorade. Getting fucking drowsy though. I need to snap out of it. Thanks.”

“Roger that.”

“Sprout, nothing Bro? The talkie guy’s not getting anywhere?”

“Negative. You cramping? You sound a little rough.”

“Nope, just bored to fuck. Sunset’s here bro. I can take this shot after dark with a ninety percent chance, but fuck…I really don’t want to be up here all night. I gotta piss like a fuckin’ race horse too. Even losing juice like I am I still gotta go, and fuck it’s not running any fucking where on this rubber roof.”

“Roger that. I feel for you man. Just hang in.”

“Yea hang in. Well, here goes, pissing in place. Oh holy fucking joy.”

In the lobby there was a collective groan as the men considered what Salem was suffering through.

“Green Giant, Delta comm. You’re doing fine; just stick with it.”

“Murray, really. Like this is my first rodeo. Just make that talkie fucker talk a better game of getting them to green light this fuck for all.”

“Roger that.”

“Hey Crackle.” Salem called out to Heck.

“Go ahead, Green Giant.”

“This little piggy went to that market. This…”

“No! No, no, no. Sprout make him stop!”

“Can’t, just ignore him.”

“No seriously. Armor piercing round will penetrate the light weight roof deck, and you are right below the insane mother fucker. Please for the love of god save us Sprout!”

“It’s rude to interrupt me, Crackle. This little piggy went to the market. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy blew the next little piggy, while the last little piggy watched porn. That sucked.

Old mother Hubbard lived in a cupboard, and she’d mothered too many fat kids. So she hung out a shingle, and wiggled and jiggled till she sold her fat ass to all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Ooh! Humpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again; so the fried him up nicely, and ate him with ham. Am I the nursery rhyming bomb or what? Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet. What the fuck’s a tuffet Tubby?”

“Call me Tubby again, just go ahead you insolent little ass bitch!”

“Oh, don’t be angry ‘cause you don’t know. Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet eating her curds and whey. Along came a fox, and he ate her for lunch, then he burped for the rest of his days. Just goes to show eating women is bad news.”

“Sprout, pleeease make him stop.”

“I’d have an easier time breaking those bitches out of Gitmo, Crackle. Kermit come on man we’re all tired, and this is mixed company. Have a bit of couth.”

“Couth, smouth. Yes, but we all aren’t par broiling away are we. It’s like that commercial. This is your brain on drugs. Well this is my brain broiling. It like to rhyme things. What’s the one about a stitch in time? No that’s not it. Man it’s really cool to have you guys to talk to while I waste away. Maybe they should let me serenade the tarjective with my rhymes. Maybe I’d drive him to cave.

Objective. What and intriguing word. Object, objective, objectify, Objectivism. Objectivism; is that a word Snap? I find it objectionable to have to refer to my target objective as an objective on the grounds that being that objective simply objectifies the reality of my objective which is to eliminate that objective with a cold hard objective disdain for my possible, well not in this case, objection to the elimination of my objective. So, I now object to objectifying any future targets of elimination by or with the term objective. That will be my form of objectivism. So I object to performing objectionable tasks unless my objective is an actual target. Or, well I might possibly compromise, and we can call it the Tarjective. So was that a good object lesson. Wow, my rhyming tongue is an objet d’ art. Wanna try it out some time Murray? It is, in fact, a marvelously loquacious, limber and sensual appendage that is rivaled only by Shakespeare. Or maybe the Grimm guy from the fairy tales.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to buy a rock of Crack. Jack got cranked, and Jill got spanked, and the three little pigs came chasing after them. A stitch in time saves me having to objectively eliminate objectives. What’s an oblation? Oh, I know I know, it’s what the Swatty’s are gonna give to me when I complete my objective of eliminating the objective tarjective. Beer’s good guys. Beer and a nice bottle of chilled Stoli. Then, maybe I can write his obituary too. Make it so Murray.”

“Ms. Murray does he have a dictionary up there?”

“No Timmons, just a photographic memory. Green Giant really?”

“Wow ma’am, because he’s like going through the O’s perfectly. I’m looking at it online.”

“Just hope he stops, Timmons.”

“Are the same little piggys that go to the market the same little piggys that the big bad wolf eats? Inquiring minds need to know. And if pigs could fly would they be able to see me up here? Fuck no! ‘Cause I’m the stealth bomb, from stealthy hell. I heartily object to pigs being allowed to fly. Oh, no. Not all pigs. All except that guy who flies for, well I can’t say, but he's definitely a pig. Stinks to fucking high heaven, but fly… the man’s an aeronautical genius. Remember that guy Sprout. Down in Cameroon. Fuck me twice it was a ground hugging, pants pissing good time. Now Cameroon. I had a fever in Cameroon; remember Sprout? I got the Cholera. I…”

“Green Giant you have never had Cholera.”

“The hell I didn’t you fat fucker! Tell ‘em Snap. It was the Cholera. I was a barfing shitting human waste excreting machine.”

“Wasn’t Cholera Green Giant. Just a virus.”

“I Object! If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning. I’d hammer all evening all over this land. I’d hammer on objects. I’d hammer on tarjectives. I’d hammer on Hump-ty Dumpty all the little piggy’s, Yankee Doodle an the spider that ate little Miss Muffet. Man she really was a sweet girl, and damn sure didn’t deserve to be eaten by an ugly scary spider. All she wanted were her curds and whey. Hard Tacks a damn sight better, but, well, it is a hard sell. Get it hard sell? You think the three bears Papa, mama and the cute little baby one, do they know the big bad wolf? Sprout?”

“Yea, Kermit?”

“Gonna knock for a few hours now. Wake me up when these civie fuckers get their asses in gear.”

“Sleep good, Kermit. Sprout out.”

Down in the lobby the group released a collective sigh of relief.

“My god is he always like that. He’s insane.” Detective Smith asked.

Murray smiled, and studied Salem’s VISAC readings. He was already out. It amazed her how the guys, Salem in particular could just shut down.

“Ah, he is a handful, but he is more than worth the trouble as you will see if they would ever green light this thing.”

“He’s really going to sleep?” Art snapped at her, pressing in toward the monitors.

“Yes. He’s tired, and for now there is nothing going on. As you can see his heart rate has already dropped to its sleeping rhythm.”

“What if they flip the switch? How long for him to wake up?”

“Just moments. Trust them Art. They know what they are doing.”

At one o-clock in the morning EST., 0600 Zulu time, thirteen plus hours after he’d crept out to his hide and having spent most of that time in a prone position Salem awoke to Rios’ squawk in his headset.

“Roger that Sprout I’m with you. Time?”

“Oh six hundred Zulu. Tide changed, and the civvies finally gave us a green light.”

“Sweet. Switching to NVG.”

“Roger that. Be advised that the bathroom is still unoccupied.”

“Roger that.”

In the lobby the group watched as Salem’s heart rate slowly picked up. His body temperature had dropped once the sun was down, and now it seemed that the good news was finally eliciting some excitement in the man.

“Sprout, I have the objective still firm at 650 yards. I have an elevation, from my twenty, of 131 feet; that's with my bipod. I have a slight northwesterly breeze still holding at .833 mph. I have a wave cycle of seven confirmed, with the forth swell being the flattest. That is my target wave Sprout. I have a clear NVG visual of the flying bridge, and a clear target lock via laser on the console.”

“Roger that. I have your target lock in my sights. I confirm all other dope. The only wild card is the kid.”

“Roger that. Murray, when this son of a bitch, the objective son of a bitch, yells into the hand set the boy ducks away, and forward slightly. It is a consistent move. When I get visual again, I need the talkie guy to try and irritate the objective. I want him yelling. That buys me oh say three and a half inches between him and the kid. Copy?”

“Roger that Green Giant. Consider it done. Be advised the objective is due to make contact in eight mikes.”

“Copy that. Sprout you think my And-A-Half is watching?”

“Roger that. But you need to push that down.”

“Roger that. I have a round chambered. Do we have a clear firing lane down range Murray?”

“Roger that. Green Giant I am being asked if the bomb is Semtex or C-4?”

“My opinion, after glassing it all day is C-4. Crude design. He’s no bomb maker. Six mikes and counting.”

At the prescribed time the objective appeared on deck, clambered up into the flying bridge, and contacted the negotiator. Salem sighted on his target.

“I have a clear visual. Objective in yellow ball cap.”

In the lobby the group watched as Salem’s heart rate plummeted along with his respiratory rate, while theirs to a man began to race.

“Roger that objective in yellow ball cap. Two clicks up, Green Giant.”

“Copy that. Two clicks up. Ok, I like that.”

“That’s better, but the final call is yours. Counting the wave cycle starting now. One.”

“Two.”

“Three...”

“Target acquired. Once the wave hits, and the boy…”

“Send it at will Green Giant.”

The crack of Salem’s Fifty startled the group. It was a loud weapon, and once you heard it you didn’t forget its distinctive sound.

“Objective eliminated. I repeat objective eliminated. Sprout, the boy?”

“Boy’s fine. He’s on his hands and knee crawling aft.”

“Murray do not allow the boy to approach his family. They could be booby trapped. Copy? Murray talk to me!”

“Roger that. Relax! Hold your twenty, Green Giant as an over watch for the boarding team.”

“Roger that and holding.”

Salem watched the boarding team clear the bomb, and one by one transfer the stricken family into their vessel. Once the last person was on board he requested permission to stand down.

“Delta comms, this is Green Giant requesting permission to stand down.”

“Stand down Green Giant, stand down and nicely done; we’ll see you soon.”

“Sprout are you good?”

“Roger that I’ll see you in the hallway. Sprout out.”

Salem stood and sighed. The early morning breeze felt great against his face so he walked to the edge of the roof, looked out across the gently rolling surf, and took a moment to enjoy it while shaking out his cramping limbs. He sipped a long drink from his camel back then turned to head for the elevator tower door, first crouching to glass the building to the north one final time. Now, in the cooler morning air, his inferred would show any potential threat. It read clear as did his NVG reading. He sighed, stood, and started forward once again.

The first round hit him square in the face, knocking his mask free, and spinning him to the left. The second round sliced across the back of his head gouging a quarter inch deep furrow into his scalp. The third round drove through his right bicep, four inches below his shoulder, just missing his Humorous, and slamming into chest, coming to stop after shattering his Scapula and a rib. The final round penetrated the thick muscle of his left thigh.

“What the fuck! Murray talk to me!” Rios screamed into his head set as the sound of the fourth shot faded away.

“Standby team Delta! Stand by.”

Rios froze. The gunshots were not Salem’s Galil or the Barrett. His stomach churned as he recalled Salem’s concern about being on the low ground. It made no sense though. Yarborough had cleared the north building and the south building twice each.

“Murray!”

“Green Giant is not moving. The plumbers are enroute to the north bathroom. Delta move forward to the roof. I repeat Green Giant is immobile, and his VISAC is frenetic.”

Rios ran. He ran, and took the fifteen stars up into the elevator tower two by two. Three SWAT team members were right behind him. As he started through the door the closest one grabbed at his tac vest.

“Slow down. If he’s under fire you’ll be under fire!”

“Step off! He’s down, and I’m going after him. Watch my six!”

With that he launched through the door, shoulder rolled, and slid across the fifteen yards to the first air handler. The SWAT man followed his lead, and the other two took up positions on either side of the tower. He flipped on his NVG, and could see Salem sprawled twenty feet from the roof edge. What terrified him was the growing pool of blood that the heat seeking device was registering.

“Murray I need a chopper, full medevac. I need landing clearance at Ryder Trauma. Kellogg I need you now. I’m moving. He’s down and bleeding heavily twenty feet off the eastern roof edge. You stay close. Plumber talk to me!” He ordered to Yarborough as he moved out crouching low, and sprinting from air handler to air handler. Shots skipped by above their heads, but Rios kept moving. “Plumber!”

“We have him. Fuck me! It’s fucking SWAT guys. All assets be advised the shooters are SWAT, the shooters are SWAT.”

Rios stood, and ran the final thirty feet to Salem trying to ignore the radio chatter coming from Plumber.

“You, Tanner get your flashlight on him. God damn it Kellogg, where the fuck are you?”

“Coming up the elevator now. Dade EMT’s are enroute ahead of us as well.”

“Fuck them.”

He rolled Salem carefully over, and stripped the pack off his back. Then he tore off his tac vest, and cut through his shirt. Using his hands swiped up and down Salem’s torso noting where he found blood. His right arm, right side chest, left thigh and head.

“Salem! Come on man look at me!” He ordered lifting the unconscious man up, and searching for an exit wound on his back. Finding none he tore open his med kit, and went to work.

First he packed, and taped the chest wound. The EMT’s showed up, and stopped when they saw Rios rendering aid. Salem coughed up a mouth full of blood, and struggled against Rios.

“You, hold his legs, you plug that thigh wound.”

“Just let us take over.”

“Fuck you. Salem take a breath for me. I need you to breathe.”

Salem’s eyes showed panic, and he shook his head. He couldn’t breathe. Rios listened to his chest.

“Damn it! Giddy his lung’s collapsed! I’m doing a chest dart. I can’t wait for you he’s suffocating.”

“Roger that! You’ve got this Rios. We’ve trained it thousands of times.”

“Here, let me I’m trained.”

Rios pulled his Deagle and pressed the muzzle against the kneeling EMT’s forehead. I told you what to do now do it.”

Then, he dug through his kit, found the Chest Dart, and after probing Salem’s chest carefully pushed it home. Salem sighed and relaxed. He could breathe again.

“Giddy he needs blood.”

“Half a mike, start an IV.”

Finally, Giddy and Heck were there. The Dade EMT’s backed off, and allowed the team to do their work.

“I can’t get a vein. He’s lost too much blood.”

“Do an IO. Heck, Ketamine. Hit him.”

“Roger that.”

“Fifty pal this is gonna hurt kiddo. You two hold his legs, Rios got him?”

“Do it. Murray where’s my chopper?”

Salem screamed, and coughed up more blood as Giddy drove the needle into his upper Tibia. Then he flushed the port, and started the IV of O positive blood flowing.

“Chopper’s, one mike out. He can’t set down so he’ll be just above the deck. I still can’t get clearance at Ryder. The have a bird on the pad.”

“Fuck Ryder. Tell them to move that son of a bitch, or I’ll land on it.”

“Rios, chopper in bound.”

“Bring him in, Heck.”

Rios I want to intubate him, then he’ll be ready for them. Gimme a number four. Should have his name on it. He takes a smaller one so I mark it.”

“Copy that.”

Three minutes later Salem, Rios and Giddy were aboard an SSC chopper headed for Miami’s Ryder Trauma facility.

 

_ Rios Residence _

_06:55 Zulu Time_

“This is Leslie Radcliff. As promised we have stayed with this evolving story all through the night. It now appears that the situation has come to its fruition with the elimination of the hostage taker by an SSC operative. This operative has apparently been positioned, albeit somehow invisibly, on the roof of 110 South Pointe for nearly ten hours patiently waiting to do his job. There is a great deal of activity here now and…oh my god what was that? Shots. There has just been a series of loud concussions that can only be described as shots. We are taking cover behind a truck.”

“Leslie, Hal. We are in Chopper One, a half mile to the north, and in the bright lights of our chopper we can see what appears to be a man down on the roof of 110 South Pointe. He was moving slowly toward the elevator tower, and then he suddenly spun, and staggered along with the sound of several shots. He is not, I repeat not moving. Oh, and now there are two men traversing the roof trying to get to him. They also appear to be dodging gun fire. The downed man must be the SSC sniper. Oh, and now we are getting radio talk…a chopper, medevac chopper is in bound, and we are to move back off to a two mile safe distance, to clear the air space.”

“There is activity down at street level as well. Several SSC operatives are dragging, and quite brutally so, two men attired in, oh my, attired in SWAT uniforms from the building north of 110. It appears that these two are our new assailants. Wow, what a turn of events. I’m getting pushed back here, so Hal try and keep us posted.”

Nala dropped the bottle of grape soda she’d been sipping from. Zoe immediately moved to her side, and wrapped her left arm around her shoulders.

“Dragon One’s hit. Grandpa’s men did it. Why?”

“I don’t know. But your dad and Heck and Giddy are there, and the hospital is only eight minutes by chopper.”

“Makes no sense. Why would Grandpa want to kill my Dragon One? He saved the day.”

“Honey, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“This is Leslie Radcliff again. Hal what can you see from your vantage point?”

The view shifted, and in the blindingly bright flood lights of Chopper One the group could see several men kneeling over someone. They were moving with rapid, but deft motions. Nala, well familiar with how the team moved, recognize the group.”

“Yup, Uncle Elliot’s down, and the guys are fixing him. Why’s he always the one sent out for the gambit?”

The shot switched back as a second chopper flew into the frame, and Leslie Radcliff was again on the screen.

“The scene here is chaotic. From what we can ascertain two members of the SWAT team pushed out by the SSC team took offense, and for reasons I suppose only they will ever be able to comprehend shot, with the intent of killing, the SSC operative now being praised for saving a dozen lives with his extraordinary shot. It is an incredible shame. The man, whose identity is being kept from us, will be flown to Ryder Trauma center. We have been told that his team was able to provide adequate medical treatment on the roof for several serious gunshot wounds, and that he is prepped for surgery once he arrives on site at Ryder. There will be a news conference in fifteen minutes with the head of the Dade, the Federal agencies, as well as the CEO of SSC. We will have more for you at that event.”

“Nala, I need you to change, and stow your gear. Samantha, we need to get to Ryder. Rios and the guys will need us. Mimi can you watch the other kids?”

“Oh, absolutely. Come here. Nala give me a hug, and give Elliot one when you get there.”

“Sam just let her come along. It’s not a battle worth fighting right now. We can assess the situation when we get there, and if necessary one of us can bring her home.”

“It’s ok Zoe. It’s ok. Nala honey, go on now, and make it snappy.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

 

 


	12. The White Knight's Plight

_ Chapter Twelve _

_ The White Knight’s Plight _

_Ryder Trauma Center_

 

 

When the elevator door to the ICU floor hissed open Nala bolted through it. She looked right, and then and seeing Rios pacing to the left she turned and sprinted towards him her booted feet clomping on the tile floor. Rios spun in his pacing, and upon seeing the frantic child headed his way, he threw his hands up in frustration. Before he could voice his thoughts Samantha held up her hands, and shook her head warning him off. Nala, still clad in her black mission clothes, skidded to a halt just inches in front of the big man. He sighed, and looked down at the flustered child. She stared gape mouthed at him, and then reaching forward pressed her palms into the still tacky blood soaking his TAC vest.

“My Dragon One’s blood?” She asked quietly, almost reverently.

Rios looked down at her, and then squatted so that they’d be eye to eye. He took her small hands in his and grasped them tightly before kissing her on the forehead.

“Yea, baby it’s Elliot’s.”

She took a shuddering breath, and furrowed her brow while reaching out again, and touching the dark crimson patches. Some of the blood blotted out the TWO insignia on his chest, and more clotted the seams sewn into the vest. Small puddles had also congealed in the top of some of Rios' ammunition pouches. Rios tried to garner what she was thinking by watching the emotions playing across her young face.

“There’s lots of it.”

“Yea Nala, he lost a lot of blood, but we got an I.V. in him, and started to get him some more real quick.”

“It’s still sticky, I can smell it.”

She lifted her damp fingers to just beneath her nose, and took and inhaled a shaky breath.

“He gonna be alright?”

Rios ran his shaking hand back across his head, and looked her in the eyes. These situations often took a bad turn. Salem _should_ be alright he should make it, but too many times Rios had seen men crash.

“He’s in surgery,” He began evenly; “He was breathing on his own when we handed him over. He never really lost consciousness from anything other than the concussion of the head shot, so I think he’ll make out ok. Nala, listen to me though. Nala?”

“I don’t want the bad news.”

“There is no bad news yet. What I was going to say, baby; was that sometimes, sometimes men crash, and we lose them even when it seems like they should be ok. So let’s just pray that doesn’t happen today. You came here, and so I just want you to know the facts. You’re here, so I need you to be a strong soldier like the rest of us.”

Nala took a huffing breath, pursed her lips, and met Tyson’s eye. He’d been crying. He was afraid. He was angry, and wanted to hurt the men who’d done this to the man they both loved. Yet behind all of those emotions she read an impenetrable resolution that Salem would be fine. She reached out, cupped his left cheek, and smiled weakly at him.

“I will, and we all will, and my Dragon One will be just fine. Where’d the son of bitch hit him at?”

Rios stood, placed his hand on her shoulder and herded her toward the small alcove the team had commandeered to await news of Salem. He might as well update the ladies and Nala at the same time.

As Rios reached the rest of the group, Nala stepped away from him allowing Samantha to great him. She watched angrily, as her mother made a face betraying her disgust at seeing Tyson covered in Elliot’s blood. Giddy’s wife Gwen and Heck’s wife Zoe both had embraced their husbands despite the blood. Rios too was annoyed, not so much that she didn’t want to soil her clothes, but that she seemed disgusted by the blood.

“It’s Elliot, Sam. He’s shit, puked, pissed and bled on me more times than I can count get over it.”

“Still you should get cleaned up. It’s un-sanitary, and Nala should wash her hands.”

“They don’t get washed until I’ve talked him mom so don’t even try.”

“See how she is. She refused to change out of those ridiculous clothes too.”

Tyson was on the verge of fury. His best friend, his brother the other half of his heart was in surgery with multiple gunshot wounds, and all the self-centered woman cared about was a few germs and what Nala had chosen to wear to the hospital.

“I’m not getting into this with you right now, Samantha. Sit down with Zoe and Gwen, and I’ll fill you in.”

Samantha knew Tyson well enough to follow the growled command. She took a seat on the hard plastic chair in between the other two women, and seethed as Nala sat down on the floor in between Heckler and Giddy.

“He’s still in surgery. Critical condition. Lost a bit of blood, but we had him going with an I.V. and prepped, intubated etcetera when he got here which saved time. He took the first round straight to his face, and his mask did its job, but was knocked off. The mask cam showed a second shot to the back of his head. It grazed him thank god. The third somehow tore into, and through his right bi-cep, missed his vest, and into his chest. His lung collapsed, but I got a chest dart in him. The last tore into his left thigh. No exit wounds. It’s a waiting game. Might be a while.”

“Sit down Tyson,” Zoe said standing up, “I’m gonna go get everyone some coffee and something to eat.”

“Sounds good, but I’ll sit after I see him.”

A few hours after Zoe returned with the supplies a nurse came over, and turned on the large television hanging in the small waiting area. She flipped through the channels and then handed the remote to Heckler.

“He’s still in surgery. I thought, though, that you all might want to see this. It’s the news conference from the police and SSC. I also wanted to tell you that the hospital has established a security perimeter so you won’t have to worry about the press getting anywhere near here, and if any of you need to leave you will be escorted out through the back. Let us know if you need anything else.”

The group muttered their thank you, and Heckler turned the volume up.

“Hello, I am Leslie Radcliff, I am standing in front of SSC headquarters awaiting the arrival of members of Dade police Department and SSC staff. They will be giving a press conference to update us on the events of this morning. It is now six a.m., five long hours after the culmination of a nearly two day hostage standoff.

We have no information about the man who was grievously wounded ending the standoff with one perfectly place shot. We observed a team of SSC operatives detaining, and turning over two members of the Dade Elite response team to other officers. These two individuals are in custody awaiting interrogation. We do not have their names at this time. We hope that this press conference will bring to light some of this information. Public outcry for revenge upon the assailants of the SSC operative has been feverish. People want to know why these men, if they are the assailants, chose to kill the man who saved twelve innocent lives. The speakers have just taken the stage so I will cut to the shot of them speaking.”

As the group watched, Art, several other Dade representatives, Alice Murray, Richard Dalton and Ernest Stockwell filed onto the top step of SSC headquarters’ front steps and lined up behind a lone microphone. Art took the podium first.

“Good morning. I am Detective Art Norris spokesmen for the Dade police force. I have a short statement, and then I will turn it over to SSC. I think the questions you are all going to ask are fairly similar so I’ll just jump straight in and there will be no questions afterward.

First, at the wishes of SSC, due to the nature of some of the operations their men are tasked with, the identity of the injured asset, and all other assets involved will remain confidential. These men are a strategic link to national security, and their anonymity is of paramount importance. I’ll leave any questions about that, or the operative’s condition to the SSC contingency.

Second, we do have two men in custody. Both of these men are members of Dade’s Elite Tactical Response Team. Their names are: Gregory Vincent Delgado and Karl Offenbach. Both have been members of the department for ten years. They are being charged with discharging a fire arm in public, public endangerment, attempted murder, attempted murder of a law enforcement member, aggravated assault, and if, god forbid, this young man dies capital murder. They are, at this point in the investigation, maintaining their innocence.

Third how did this happen? As best as we can establish, after interrogating the SSC team, the following occurred; Delgado and Offenbach were charged with securing the front entrance of 108 South Point, the building north of 110. On two separate occasions the SSC team was sent to verify the security of 108 for fears that there might be a second shooter working with the perpetrator on the boat. On both occasions the Dade officers allowed the SSC team to pass, conduct their search, and leave. After the shots were fired at the SSC asset on the roof of 110, the SSC team returned to 108, and found Delgado and Offenbach missing from their post.

The SSC team moved to the top floor via the stairwell, and the elevator, and could hear gunfire. As they made entry into the top floor hall from the elevator they were met by Delgado and Offenbach moving toward the elevator. The two men claimed that the assailant had fled, and that they were in pursuit. One of the SSC team noted the odor of Cordite, or gunpowder, and was suspicious. The SSC team questioned the two, and they replied that they had fired at the assailant, and that they needed to hurry. The lead man for SSC radioed for his other assets to seal the exits, and they moved forward.

Upon entering the room, where the shots were fired from, they became suspicious, and returned to Delgado and Offenbach who were waiting for the elevator, unaware that the SSC teams had shut them all down. They again questioned the pair, noting that they were very agitated, and one of the SSC men grabbed Offenbach’s weapon, noted that it was hot, and the same caliber as the shell casings found in the room. Further examination showed that Delgado and Offenbach’s weapons had fired the same amount of rounds as found in the room. Convinced that they had the shooters they took the pair into custody. The building was searched, and no other assailants were discovered. The exits were all sealed, and there was no way for this second shooter the pair claimed to be pursuing to have exited 108 South Point.

This leads us to believe that Delgado and Offenbach, for reasons they will have to tell us, tried to take out the SSC asset, and blame it on this second gunman. Was it jealousy for being pulled from the operation? I can’t tell you, but what we all need to do now as say a prayer for the wounded man, and hope that justice is served to his assailants. Thank you.”

Art stepped away, and Alice Murray took his place. Those who knew her could tell she was barely controlling her anger.

“I am Alice Murray, SSC contract writer and mission specialist for the two teams involved in this operation. As Detective Norris stated our assets will remain, for their safety, anonymous. What I can tell you is that he is a twenty-nine year old, former Army Ranger, trained as a Sniper, and that he was, on several occasions, decorated for his service. These include several Purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars.

He is currently in Ryder Trauma Center, listed in critical condition, undergoing surgery for what appears to be at least four bullet wounds. We had an asset with him immediately who is a highly trained Combat Medic. He was nearly completely prepped for surgery when they handed him off to the Ryder team. He received four wounds. One to his face which was blocked by his ballistic mask. One to the back of his head a grazing wound, one through his right bicep and into his chest, and the final round entered his left thigh. All are very damaging injuries. We will see justice for his suffering.”

The crowd began to rumble at the terse declaration, and Alice paused to let them get quiet again.

“SSC stands behind its assets one hundred and fifty percent. We have an excellent working relationship with the Dade law enforcement community, via training, expert consultation, techniques and equipment. This is a blow to that relationship. This mission or operation was taken Pro Bono as a show of good faith. We, at SSC, hope that in return the Internal Affairs department and any other departments involved in the coming investigation will shed any prejudices, and conduct an open, honest, transparent investigation, and prosecute all involved to the fullest extent of the law. If this is not the case, then, I as the voice of my team, will go on record and say that justice will be done. If the perpetrators of this attack are wrongfully freed there will be nowhere on this earth that they can run to escape us. They will be brought to justice, and we do not follow the general rule of law when we pursue our personal enemies. Thank you. I have a wounded man to see to.”

Heckler muted the television and whistled quietly.

“Whoa, Murray’s pissed.”

“We’re all pissed, Heck.” Nala added looking at her blood stained hands, “We’re all pissed, and I’ll be the first one to shoot the bastard that hurt my Dragon One.”

“No, you’re in line after me Mini Merc. I get to those sons a bitches first, and they’ll die slow and painful. Rios isn’t the only one who’s been to School with Ferrell.”

“You can be all the pissed you want, Phil, but I’m not sure it’s such a good thing to broadcast it.”

“No worries, Gwen. Like Murray said if these two ass wipes did it, and they walk because of some I.A. cover up there is nowhere far enough for them to run to, we will find them.”

“Phillip, this isn’t some third world country where there is no justice. You go after these two, and it’s you guys that will end up in prison. You have families, and I think we already suffer enough because of the job without needing to worry about this type of personal vendetta.”

“Yea Gwen, that’s true, but a brother’s a brother, and if that’s what it takes to get revenge than you’ll just have to fucking live with it. Nobody hurts Salem, nobody; not without getting it right back ten-fold.” Giddy snapped at her uncharacteristically rude.

Gwen flinched at the upbraiding. She’d never seen him like this. His pale eyes were blood shot from crying, and riddled with rage. She’d never seen any of them like this. The fury roiling off of them was so intense that she felt they’d explode at the slightest cause. They were worried, that was clear, but the longer they waited locked in inaction, the more furious the men seemed to grow. The only one who seemed to fit in with the trio of blood soaked men was little Nala. She sat against the wall, elbows resting on her knees studying the blood on her hands. Gwen had the idea that if given a gun, and access to the two men she’d gladly put bullets in both of their heads and never flinch. Before she could reply Rios stopped pacing and turned down the hallway. The quiet was shattered by his roaring of Yarborough’s name.

The men collided just outside of the alcove, and Yarborough was hard put to keep his feet under Rios’ furious charge. He tried to wrestle Rios’ hands from his throat, but the man’s fury was making him that much stronger. Heckler and Giddy jumped up, and tried to tear Rios off of the big man finally getting them apart, and shoving Tyson back into the alcove. Yarborough bent at the waist trying to catch his breath.

“You were supposed to clear that fucking building; you god damned useless fucker. I know you hate him, but this?”

“Rios, we did clear it, man. We did. Those fucks went in after we left. They had it planned. Fuck me, Rios I don’t hate the boy. He pushes me, and we fight. You of all people should know him by now. Would I fucking be here if I’d have wanted this shit to go down. The only fucking reason those pukes aren’t dead is ‘cause I figured you guys’d want first dib’s. Shit man.”

Rios waved him off. He knew it to be true. He’d seen the news conference, but after spending nearly six hours seething that Yarborough had dropped the ball, and allowed Salem to get hurt he just couldn’t control that rage. Yarborough walked forward and extended his hand. Rios shrugged, and took it before the older man pulled him into an embrace. They were all soldiers, they were by extension a team, and he knew, from having been in Rios’ shoes, what the man needed to feel and hear. Strong arms and words of hope that would keep him held together until word of Salem’s condition came to them.

“He’s as tough as they come, Rios. He’ll pull through this. You know he will. He has to, because I owe him an ass beating. We’ve got your six in this too. With what Murray said, you guys are too exposed; so you just give the word, and justice will be done.

Then, he released him, and stepped back two steps.

“We got two guys here too. O positive if he needs it so…”

“Thanks for that, thanks, no so far they haven’t said anything. Heck’s O pos. too so thanks though, come on join us.”

It was only a half an hour after Yarborough’s arrival that the surgeons finally appeared with news about Salem. The guys all stood up, and swarmed toward the Doctors. Two of the men were from Ryder’s staff, a third man Rios recognized as an SSC medical asset, and to his dismay Salem’s old girl- friend Cielia rounded off the surgical team. The tallest of the group held his hands up to silence the anxious group.

“He made it through the surgery. We’re moving him to ICU for observation for the next probably forty-eight hours. If you will all come with me, I will show you his pictures, and describe what was done.”

They group filed into a conference room, and the tall doctor turned on a screen.

“We did a high res CT of his head. He has a slight Subdural Hematoma from the shot to his face, but that’s very mild. We did insert a shunt just to be safe. He has a concussion which is also to be expected from that amount of impact. It took thirty stitches to close the scalp wound. He lost some hair. He also has a stress fracture to his C5 and C6 vertebrae, probably from the force of the head shot snapping his head around. These we’ll treat with a neck brace and time will heal them.

Moving on. The next injury, as you can see here, that the bullet tracked through his right long and short biceps, just nicking his Humerus, and shattering his third rib. It continued through his chest wall, and slammed into his right Scapula shattering it into five pieces. The rib pierced the upper lobe of the lung which caused its collapse. The chest dart saved his life. We re-built the rib and his Scapula. Repaired the chest wall and lung. There were numerous bits of bone splinter to remove. The Biceps were torn, and we re-attached them, they should make a complete recovery.

The thigh wound; the round entered through his inner thigh here, plowed through his Quadriceps, and lodged in the lower end of his Iliotibial Tract. The tears were repaired, and again we saw no nerve damage, and he should recover from this wound as well. All in all he’s a very lucky man.

That said his rehab will be slow. We have left his breathing tube in place. Anytime you deal with that amount of trauma to the chest wall things can go south in a hurry. We noted that he has scaring from previous bullet wounds so I will assume you are all somewhat familiar with the process. One of you will be allowed into ICU to see him for ten Minutes every hour. I suggest the rest of you head home, get cleaned up and rest. The next forty-eight hours will be a waiting game. Barring infection, or another lung collapse we should be able to move him out of ICU to Respiratory critical care by Thursday. Thank you.”

The doctors filed from the room and as Cielia passed Rios she squeezed his right shoulder. The SSC doctor waited until the others had gone and approached Rios.

“He’s critical but stable. They did a great job. It’s up to Salem now. Send the rest home, have one of them bring you some clothes, and I can arrange for you take a shower here so that you don’t have to leave. Your daughter can stay, but she will not be allowed to see him in ICU She is not even allowed to go to the ICU recovery waiting area with you; so I suggest you send her home as well. I know that they are very close, but there really is nothing she can do here, Tyson. I need to debrief with the surgical team, and I’ll see you later.”

For a few moments Rios felt in control. Having the surgeon give his terse informative report made him feel that once again the situation was in control. He needed to feel in control. They all did. They thrived on controlling their situation. With that thought in, mind he took a deep breath, and prepared to take command of his team, Nala included.

“Ok you heard the man. Now, this _is_ what’s going to happen. Yarborough, your team is to monitor the cops. I want to know about any information that gets leaked about those fuckers. Bail amounts anything. I won’t risk losing them. Giddy, Heckler, And-A-Half go home. Go home, get cleaned up…Nala these are orders. Follow them. Go home, get cleaned up, bring me back clothes and my phone and wallet etcetera. Any change in Elliot and I’ll call. Nala come here.”

The girl complied wordlessly her face furrowed in tight frustration.

“You can’t go up to where he is. It’s against the rules. Go home, get washed up, and sit by the computer. I’ll try and get a visual for you ok. I’m gonna have Murray try to have MIT set something up on the sly. Roger that?”

“Roger that, Papa Tank. And-A-Half, out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. The Plight of Kings

**_“Remember, upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.”_ **

**_Ryder Trauma Center_ **

     

      “Sir, excuse me, sir.”

      At the sound of the young nurse’s voice, Rios turned from the closed elevator doors. Then, he pressed the heels of his hands forcefully into his eye sockets to clear away the image of Nala flanked by Giddy and Heckler, with the three holding hands. A united front, he thought. United, but to exactly what end. He shivered. The hospital was cold, and now that he’d stripped off his tactical gear, and handed it off to Giddy, he felt naked and very exposed. The armor kept them safe from bullets and physical attack, but he was smart enough to know, and humble enough to admit that it also provided an emotional wall of security as well.

      “I can take you to ICU waiting now, sir.”

      “Thank you.”

      As they traversed the hallways toward the ICU, the young woman rattled off the rules, and detailed what Tyson might expect to see. She then informed him that she would also be his contact for any questions concerning what he saw once they arrived and for the duration of Elliot’s care.

      “I studied his chart, sir, and I saw that this is not his first incidence of suffering trauma care or bullet wounds.”

      “No, ah I’m sorry your name again?”

      “Abrial and it’s perfectly alright.”

      “Yes, he’s been wounded before.”

      “Okay, here we are, and there he is. They’re still getting him situated, but it won’t be much longer. Unfortunately, you have to wait until you have showered, and donned clean clothes before going in. I know that one of the others is returning with them. In lieu of that, I can arrange for you to have some scrubs. I know that you are anxious to see him.”

      Rios wanted to answer her, but he was fixated upon Elliot. No matter how many times he’d endured Salem’s frequent injuries, he’d never become accustomed to seeing someone he loved in such dire shape.

      “Yea, thanks I’d like that. He needs me. Where’s the shower? Oh, and call me Guy.”

      “Okay, Guy it is, and thanks. Sir tends to get a bit stuffy after a bit. Come with me, right this way.”

      Forty-five minutes later, showered and dressed in a set of dark green scrubs, Abrial led Tyson to Salem’s bedside. After she checked her new patient’s vitals and various fluid collection vials she nodded for Rios to sit at the bedside.

      “Our policy is a bit forward thinking as far as ICU visitation philosophy, but not until he is out of this actual recovery area. So, I’m afraid that I can only allow you ten minutes per hour, I’m sorry. I’ll be back then.”

      Once the door swished closed behind Abrial, Tyson leaned forward, and grasped Salem’s left hand. The bandages protecting his shattered shoulder blade held his right arm tight to his thickly bandaged chest. He kissed Elliot’s knuckles, and then pressed the back of his hand against his own left cheek, while looking down at his taped eyes. The taped lids were, for Tyson, the worst part. The breathing tube was bad, the I.V.’s were bad, but seeing Salem’s eye lids held shut with the thin strips of tape frightened him beyond rational. The best he’d come to figure was that it reminded him of when folks placed coins on the closed eyes of dead people. He forced down the unwanted anxiety churning in his chest, and squeezed Salem’s hand a bit tighter.

      “Hey, Ellie, I don’t have a long time. I’m here. We’re all here. We love you. Nala can’t be here just yet, but she sends you hugs and kisses. You’re gonna be okay. I can’t lose you just yet, I need you.”

      Then, the tears began all over again, and he tried in vain to hold them back. While he cried, he brushed his fingers through what little bit of Salem’s bangs shot out from beneath the bandage round his head. Words would come later, but right now he just needed to have physical contact with the wounded man. He needed to feel his fevered skin beneath his course fingers. He needed to see the rise and fall of his chest, and to be able to press his fingers against the thumping flow of blood along the side of his stubble shadowed neck. That was what he needed, and he knew intuitively that Salem, despite his un-consciousness, would feel his knowing touch, and be soothed and made secure by it. Then, all too quickly, Abrial called his name, and after placing a final kiss on Elliot’s forehead, he slipped from the room.

      On his third trip out of Salem’s room, he was relieved to see Giddy and Heckler waiting for him in the little conference space the hospital had assigned as their waiting area. The trio embraced, and Rios felt better having the men around him.

      “Here Tyson, clothes, phone, laptop, wallet etcetera.”

      Rios took the proffered bag from Giddy and nodded.

      “Thanks Phil, Secour and Pedro?”

      “Pedro’s doing ballistics on the rounds Yarborough snatched from 110, and the ones they collected from the Swatty’s guns.”

      “How’s that possible?” Rios asked, kicking free of the snug fitting scrubs.

      Giddy frowned and watched him struggle with the borrowed clothing, while setting a second laptop on the heavy cherry conference table, and opening the lid.

      “Seem’s Y-boob’s not such a boob after all. When they realized the Swatty’s were the shooters, he immediately figured Dade I.A. would try for a cover up. They fired a round from each of the fuckers’ weapons into Winslet’s vest, and turned all of the shit over to Pedie. Dade can run all of their tests, but we’ll have our own. We don’t need some bureaucratic chain of evidence. We just need proof. While he’s on that, Secour’s trolling though comms trying to see if the fuckers told anyone else about their plan, or if any higher chain of command dicks are involved, he’s also hacking 110’s security cams for pics.”

      “Jesus, Rios, un-dress much? You’re stuck in the damned thing.” Heckler cut in as Rios fought to take off the shirt.

      “You ever see a fucking doctor as big as me you prick. Gimme a hand.”

      “Tyannikov comes damn close.” He stated, tugging at the tail, trying to pull the scrub top over Tyson’s hulking shoulders, “Hmph, and about that, Fifty does seem to have a thing for docs. There’s Tyannikov and Cielia, hell Tyson, maybe wearing this shit’ll sway him over into your…”

      “Heckler don’t start your…”

      “What’s that? You’re all muffled. I only read you three by, repeat your last.”

      “When I…”

     Heckler sniggered, and jerked hard on the shirt again, finally yanking it over Tyson’s head.

      “Tell me I’m lying, Boss. Proofs in the pudding, as they say.” He quipped, throwing the green top at Tyson’s head, and buying a few seconds for his retreat while Rios untangled himself.

      Tyson slapped the small garment aside, and glared at the smaller man. They were a team and they all played their rolls. Heckler’s was to do just as he was doing. Break the ice. Get them moving. Salem was the jester and Giddy, their anchor, but it was Heckler that poked and prodded when they needed it. Sometimes, he tended to push too far, but typically he was spot on and his jibes worked.

      “Fuck you, Vinnie. They okay?”

      “None of us are okay, but we’ve been through this shit before. It’s just so fucked up that it’s gone down like this, and at the hands of one of our own, Tyson. Where at home, doing good for a change. He should have been safe.”

      Tyson sat down on a chair, and tied his sneakers. Heckler was right. Elliot should have been safe. That was, for the team, a difficult fact to get around. What concerned him more though was that they had no way to avenge him. They couldn’t just re-group, counter attack and wipe out Elliot’s assailants. Here, civilization, if you could call it such, bound them to legal constraints, which he knew all of them were quite willing to, and adept at tossing aside if need be. They had all made such concessions in the past, and would do so again, especially when the situation involved one of their own.

      Heckler worried him, but it was Giddy that garnered his greater concern. He was too quiet, too focused on the laptop, and his earlier outburst at Gwen fueled Rios’ concern.

The older man had a strong and very private relationship with Elliot. What the pair shared stayed nearly exclusively between them, it always had. That private bond, Rios knew, made him capable of spinning out, and doing something foolish.

      “Heckler, give us the room. Go round up some chow, and see if we can’t get a coffee maker brought in here. Talk to Abrial. Do a recon on their so called security too. I don’t want anybody sneaking through, like the press.”

      “Copy that.”

      Then, as Heckler passed through the door Rios grasped his shoulder, and spoke into his right ear quietly.

      “We’re gonna make this right by him, Vince. You just need to trust me.”

      Heckler locked eyes un-waveringly with the bigger man. They were all hyper-sensitive to one another’s feelings and moods, and he read the message implied in Tyson’s firm grasp and piercing black eyes. It was the conformation that the entire team needed to hear, and would hear, one by one, each in their own time and directly from the man they called leader. It was promise, an oath that would bind them tight during the coming weeks. He nodded in understanding, embraced Rios, and set off to complete his mission, glad to have one.

 

_NOTE: Introductory quote: Alexander the Great_


	14. And the Distrust of Loyal Pawns

**_ Chapter Fourteen _ **

**_ And the Distrust of Loyal Pawns _ **

**_Ryder Trauma Center_ **

     

      Tyson picked up his laptop and rounded the table. As he crossed behind Giddy, he paused, looked over his shoulder and studied the video playing back on the screen. It was the recording shot from Salem’s helmet cam.

      “Start it again, Giddy.”

      Giddy did, and the pair watched the shooting again. They watched Salem stand up and shrug free of his white Ghillie suit after Murray cleared him to stand down. They watched him take a moment to double check his surroundings and they watched him begin to walk back toward the elevator shaft. Both men flinched when the first shot tore Elliot’s mask from his head. After that, their view shifted to a point looking sideways from the rocking mask at Salem, as the impact of the round creasing the back of his head knocked him forward, and then they watched him slam to his left when the third round tore through his arm and chest. Finally, the fourth shot dropped him to the blood stained, and slickened roof deck.

      “He did everything right. How many times have you watched it?”

      “Too many.”

      “Then stop, Phil. It’s not our fault. We did nothing wrong.”

      Giddy snorted and started the video again, this time from the perspective of the satellite view and aimed toward 110. Rios shrugged and continued round the table. He put his laptop down and set it up. As he was typing in his security codes, Giddy’s cell phone rang.

      “Talk to me M.I.T.. Okay, roger that. Yea, I see it uploading to me now. Good, yea, make god damned certain you weren’t tailed. Yea, well fuck ‘em. Names, ours any way, have all been redacted a long time ago. Sure grainy, but I’ll make due. No, don’t worry about it. Stay on the shit from today. Giddy out.”

      “What’s that all about? You give M.I.T. something to do outside of my orders, Giddy?”

      “Fuck you Rios, and yea I did. It should be loading to you too.”

      “Look Phil, I don’t know what bug crawled up your ass, but…”

      “Sure you do, Rios. You’re just hoping you won’t have to deal with it. You’re just hoping that I’ll let you off the hook by just passively cruising along. Tough luck.”

      “My allegiance is to him.”

      “Tell him that.”

      “What? He knows. All of you should know.”

      “You’re right Rios. We do know, because we have sen it time and time again. We have watched you throw his ass away over that cunt time and time again. So yea, Tyson, we all are more than clear about exactly where your so called allegiance lies.”

      “Art was not involved, so my allegiance is not an issue.”

      “You’re completely certain of that?”

      “Christ Phil, if he wanted to get rid of Elliot, he could do it with a hell of a lot less exposure. Why would he go so far? Just to take advantage of the situation? A situation that just dropped into his lap. It doesn’t add up. It’s just not likely.”

      “And if it turns out you’re wrong? He snuck around and un-sealed Elliot’s files. He was definitely plotting against him.”

      The pair locked eyes. Rios knew what Giddy was thinking. The entire team was thinking the same thing. If Art was implicated, if it came down to letting Art go free, and not seeing justice for Salem would he cave in to protect his wife’s father and daughter’s grandfather. Which family would he back?

      “Salem, Salem comes first, then Nala. The rest do not matter, Phil. As for Art, even if he did want to off Elliot I don’t see him as bright enough to put the entire op together in such little time. His only incentive was our concern about a second shooter. Sure, he might have figured he could capitalize on it, but the risk far outweighed the payout. I just don’t see it, and I do not see his guys being so loyal that they’d throw away their lives in such a risky attempt. They just didn’t have enough incentive. Money, yea, but Art’s not loaded so, what else could he offer?”

      “What if he could offer revenge?”

      “For fucking what? We don’t know these fucking guys.”

      “Open the file M.I.T. just sent.”

      Rios opened it and read the title. Operation Ski Slope, date redacted, place redacted, he shook his head not quite seeing a connection.

      “How did you get this?”

      “Don’t ask don’t tell. Remember it?”

      “Bolivia, some narco bastard backing Paz Estenssoro’s competition. He had too much land and money, and all of it was in drugs. Wasn’t helping our interests.”

      “Name?”

      “I don’t recall.”

      “Delgado, ring a bell?”

      Tyson looked up from reading the file, and stared at Giddy wide eyed.

      “We went in and we cleaned them out. The kids, the little ones anyway, were sent here into orphanages. Jorge Vicente Delgado was five years old that day.”

      “So what the fuck are you trying to say, Phil?”

      “George Vincent Delgado is sitting in an interrogation room right now accused of shooting Salem. Ten perfect years of service, a nice little home with a picket fence, a cute wife and an adorable five year old boy; what incentive do you think would push his buttons enough to make him throw away his life? Jealousy at us getting the call, shame at being passed over, money from Art? No, but revenge for the destruction of his home and his entire family, yea just maybe.”

      “No, not possible.”

      “Really, how did you first meet Art? Working with his DEA team in Bolivia, right. He has friends. He’s seen the un-redacted files, Rios. He knows who was on what op, and he knows who George Vincent Delgado really is. So, he see an opportunity, the second shooter, and he just nudges Delgado to use it to his advantage. It’s a win, win situation for them both.”

      “Art’s not involved. If Delgado is what you think he is he acted alone. Regardless of any of it though, we could have a situation. He can’t name us, but he can damn sure open a fucking smelly can of worms.”

      “You wouldn’t think so. I thought about calling Gabe, but then thought we should feel out Art. Thoughts?”

      Then, as if the day hadn’t already been rife with coincidences, the conference room door swung open and Art walked in. Both men closed their laptops and stared at the detective. Before either could speak, he locked the door and took a seat across from Rios and to Giddy’s right. He placed a small voice recorded down in between them and sat back.

      “I want to first say that I had nothing to do with this tragedy. Here, Tyson, it’s Salem’s file take it as a token of good faith.”

      Rios reached out and took the pale blue file folder from Art’s left hand.

      “Now, I know that the three of us are well versed in keeping secrets. I know that we have all worked together covertly to some extent in the past. This is the recording of George Delgado’s confession. Does that name mean anything to either of you?”

      Both Giddy and Rios feigned ignorance and shook their heads no.

      “Then, this might.” He stated and pressed the play button.

_George Vincent Delgado Interrogation 3_

_Detective: George, Karl has confessed. He told us why you did what you did and why he agreed to help you. Let us help you. If what you are telling is the truth, we may be able to substantially reduce your sentence._

_George’s representation: I have heard Karl’s testimony, you need to talk to us George._

_Detective: What drove you to shoot the SSC operative?_

_GVD: I wanted him to hurt like he hurt me._

_Detective: You know him?_

_GVD: I have seen him._

_Detective: Continue, tell me from the beginning._

_GVD: In the control center when they were briefing us I noticed him. He’s hard to miss._

_Detective: The wounded SSC asset?_

_GVD: No, his partner the big one. He brushed by me and Karl and I noticed his arm, his right arm. He had a tattoo. Roll my sleeves up please. Thanks, see it?_

_Detective: The letters “VCD”, self-inked into your forearm. Looks like they have been there a while, all stretched, and on your left, “ON”, also old. Back on the right a circle of linked crosses rounding your bicep just below where your shirt sleeve ends. Go on what does this all mean?_

_GVD: This SSC man, he has a tattoo in the same place as my crosses. I have one cross for each member of my family that I lost, lost to him. This man’s tattoo says, “Vaya con Dios” and the other “O NEG”. He held me by my hair, I was five years old, I was Jorge Vicente Delgado and he was with the Bolivian Narcotics forces that executed my entire family before burning my home to the ground. I saw the tattoo, I remembered him for his size and his voice and I wanted revenge. Karl went along, because he is my partner. I did the shooting. Karl just acted as a distraction. Let him go._

_Detective: Let me understand you George. I’m to believe that the SSC asset was working with Bolivian forces doing Narco work._

_GVD: I don’t know who he was with. He was translating, and shooting, there were several Americans. I was small. I don’t know their affiliation for sure. I had heard my father discussing the use of American soldiers and this School of the Americas, I figure it was them. I just know he was there. They were there killing innocent Bolivian citizens. I did this to myself so that I would never forget. They sent me here to an orphanage. I made right for myself. Tried to forget where I came from. But, today when I saw him and heard his voice, it all came back. My father, yes was a drug lord, but my mother and brothers and aunts, the farm workers, no. I asked around this morning, and found out that him and the shooter were very, very close. I decided to take him from him, to make him hurt. I knew that he’d be able to see him dying. They have stuff in their gear that monitors their vitals. I knew he’d see him die, and he’d be as helpless as I was while he held me by my hair and screamed at me about how I would never be able to follow in my father’s foot-steps. I doubt that this would go over well if I told the right people. Is he dead?_

      _Detective: I don’t know._

_George’s representation: I think we should break here. This complicates the situation quite a bit._

_Detective: Agreed._

_GVD:I just ask that my family is being looked after. That is my only concern._

      Art shut the recorder off and sighed. Rios sat ashen faced and Giddy was slumped in his seat. The detective could easily tell that Rios had not been the only man on the raid that day, Giddy had been there as well.

      “Now what?” Art asked, “I came to you, as an act of courtesy. The higher ups are already looking for a way to work this. If you need to contact anyone, do it now. Delgado is planning on using this as leverage, and it will work for him and he’ll walk. I know what you are both thinking, let him walk, because there’s nowhere he can run, but I really want you to think long and hard about that. Aside from this how is he Tyson?”

     


	15. Knight of Knights

**_ Chapter Fifteen _ **

**_ Knight of Knights _ **

**_Bolivia 1985_ **

 

      “Yo, Rios. Up and at em’ it’s show time. We got a green light.”

      Tyson Rios shook free of Gabe Benedict’s firm grip on his left boot, and shoved aside the large palm fronds he was hunkered down beneath in an effort to stay somewhat dry. It had rained on the two man surveillance team for five days straight with only very brief periods of sunshine and between the wet and the ants both were at the end of their patience.

      “Bout god damned time.”

      “Here chew on this and get your eye on that long gun.”

      Rios took the proffered chunk of soggy jerky, and after tearing off a chunk set his right eye to the lens of his rifle’s scope.

      “We still just playing overwatch?”

      “Copy that, Tyson. Ferrell wants the natives to do the dirty work. Keeps our hands clean.”

“Fuck clean hands. I want my piece for what those fucking butchers did to Emilio and Calvin. I can’t shake seeing them hanging there upside down all skinned like they were, sick mother fuckers.”

      “Yea, I hear you Tyson, but just try and crank it down a notch. We don’t need an incident. I got two on the front portico, two on the roof above it, and two each on the north and south corners. Same set up that they’ve had all along.”

      “The gate?”

      “Two guys, one on each side of the road. Giddy and Ferrell have them though.”

      “Hang on Ferrell’s talking.” Rios cut in, “Copy that, half a klick out, take out the sentries on your order. Copy that we are green.”

      “What’s the word?”

      “Locals are in place half klick out waiting for Ferrell.”

      “Top tango’s first, then the corners and finally the portico.”

      “Works for me. Ferrell’s counting it down, three, two one execute.”

     

**_Present_ **

**_Ryder Trauma Center_ **

 

      “Tyson, Tyson, Rios wake up.”

      Rios startled awake with a gasp, blinking rapidly and trying to orientate himself. The cloying heat of the jungle and the rank stink of rain soaked gear, sweat and urine teased bile into his dry mouth, and afraid that he’d vomit, he coughed hoarsely and turned away from Heckler and Giddy in an effort to mask his discomfort.

      “What!”

      “He’s awake.”

      Those two words cleared his head instantly. He looked up at the pair, as he stood up from the hard chair that he’d dozed off in three hours ago, and cracked his thick neck. The loud pop elicited a grimace from Heckler, and he smiled.

      “You’re getting old you fat fucker. Go on over; they said you can see him until the doc shows up.”

      “Right, can you two round up some coffee?”

      “It’s made just take a cup. But sip it here, man. He can’t have anything and if he smells it he’s gonna want some too.”

      “Yea, Phil that’s true, yea. Make me a cup while I go piss.”

      Rios pissed, and then soaked his head under the faucet. The dream about the Bolivian op still flitted around his head, and it made him feel uneasy. He seldom dreamed about the job, and that he had showed just how trying their current situation was. Delgado was trying to sell his information to anybody that would listen, and despite having the protection of confidentiality Rios still couldn’t completely shake his fear that the op and his actions would come back and cost him a heavy price. The officer had eye witness confirmation describing American soldiers working with a foreign government, and propagating, what many might consider, a reprehensible crime.

      Rios grunted at the stark weary image staring back at him from the mirror. ‘Let them consider,’ he thought. They hadn’t been there. They hadn’t seen what the teams had found in the villa, and the surrounding out buildings, they hadn’t lost good men to the butcher that they’d butchered. The Bolivian’s had suffered far more at the hands of the mountain Narco lord. The simple folk had their daughters kidnapped, sons murdered and lively hoods destroyed. He didn’t regret what they’d allowed, facilitated, or more accurately agitated the local forces into doing. Truth be told if, he’d had his way, Delgado would have died along with the other men despite his age. He’d come out firing with a twelve gauge shot gun, killing one of the team, and for Rios that made him a combatant. Only Gabe’s strong hand had stayed the boy’s execution by Rios’.

      That was all in the past, and for the present he had Salem to worry over. He doubted that any of them would be taken to task for their actions, and if that did become the case they all, even Gabe, had plans to get out.

      Feeling a bit clearer headed, he returned to Heck and Giddy, threw back a half of cup of the strong coffee, and made his way down the hall and to Salem’s room. Abrial was waiting outside of the door smiling.

      “Finally, he’s up. We really didn’t think he’d be out this long, but, as they say, the body knows best. He’s asking for you, and Dr. Stettheimer is on his way to check on him and decide our next course of action.”

      Rios walked into the room behind Abrial and stepped up to the bed. Abrial had propped Elliot up a bit higher than previously, and removed the breathing tube. Tyson was greatly relieved to see the younger man’s eyes open despite how glazed and confused he looked.

      “Go on over; your chair’s there, and he’s waiting. He can’t have anything just yet, but there is some crushed ice and a small spoon there it will at least wet his lips. Ring if you need me, and take as much time as you need.”

      Finally, Tyson slid into the chair on Elliot’s left side. The man looked awful and Tyson shook his head. Before he could speak, Salem reached out weakly with his left hand, wincing in pain, and ran his hand over the top of Tyson’s head and right cheek.

      “You’re scruffy. Four, five days I’m out?”

      Tyson took the hand and squeezed it between his own. They knew one another so well.

      “Five, had a day’s worth to start with. Long time to be out for you. You usually bounce right back. Getting soft on me, Ellie?”

        
      “Guess so. I just wasn’t ready, in my head for it, Tyse. Fuck, so thirsty.”

      “Here, you can suck on a bit of ice. Here, easy no, let me bring it to you don’t try to sit up.”

      Tyson held out the small plastic spoon, and Elliot sipped the finely crushed ice into his mouth. It felt good on his parched lips and slipping down his ragged throat.

      “More, Tyse.”

      They repeated the process several more times until Elliot waved him off.

      “Better. Thanks. You ok, Tyse? You look like hell. Four or five days I’ve been out?”

      Tyson frowned. Was Salem just repeating himself, or had he forgotten that they’d already discussed Tyson’s beard and un-shaved head.

      “We talked about that, Elliot, remember? Five, you’ve been out for five days. I was worried. You never knock out for so long.”

      “Oh, forgot I guess. Tyse, what the fuck happened? Murray stood me down, but that’s the last I can fucking remember.”

      Tyson sighed, and blinked away tears. This was his fault. Salem had sustained serious injuries in the past, but this was the first time that those injuries were categorically his fault. Salem was paying the price for his past indiscretions, and that made Rios feel sick inside.

      Salem noted the tears, and frightened by Tyson’s weakness tried to reach out to brush them away. This wasn’t his Tyse, his tank, his protector, his knight. This was someone alien to him. He furrowed his brow, and tried once again to piece together what had happened on the roof of the building.

      “Tyse stop. I’ll be ok. Just, I just don’t get why I’m here. Why you seem so off. I hate what I see in your eyes right now. You’re scaring me.”

      Rios sniffled, and after retrieving a tissue from Salem’s bedside table blew his nose. The truth was best.

      “My fault, Ellie.” He began once again squeezing Salem’s good hand in between his own. “A man, one of the Swattys…”

      “Art, did this to me?” Salem spat out causing him to cough. He finally settled again, but sweat coated his brow beneath his bandages and Rios daubed it away with a soft towel.

      “No, they acted alone.”

      “For fuck’s sake, Rios, why?”

      “There was an op, a long time back, in Bolivia. I, we did some bad shit. Was with Ferrell, so that should explain it. This kid, the son of the Narco bastard we took down, was there. He was five. Long story short, I wanted to kill him. He’d killed one of us, and I wanted to leave a clean slate. Wipe out the entire nest so to speak. They were destroying everything we were trying to do down there. Gabe talked me down, but only barely, and not before I really showed my ass.

      This kid’s old man was a psychopath, like Clyde kinda. He’d butcher people. Kill them and skin them alive, and he’d gotten to a couple of my guys. This kid got sent here to an orphanage. He grew up into a good man, good cop, father, etcetera. I guess he never forgot, Elliot, and he recognized me in the staging area. He figured he’d use our concerns about a second shooter to get his revenge. They tried to take you out, to hurt me, and blame it on the second shooter, but after the shooting began, and Yarborough’s team went back into 110, they smelled a rat and took him and his buddy down.”

      “Recognized you?”

      “My tats.”

      “I’m tired, Tyse. I don’t want to hear anymore. You’re my Rios, always be my Rios.”

      “Nearly killed a boy, Ellie. That shit ain’t right.”

      “Nobody’s innocent, Tyson, nobody, and we can’t always be the great white fucking knights you want us to be. More ice please. Then, enough a this. I can’t hear any more. I don’t want to hear, or know anymore. I just saved twelve people, and if you hadn’t saved me from myself, I don’t know how many times, I wouldn’t have been here to do it. I’m just so tired, and I just want to go home.”


End file.
